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A NOVEL. 


BY MRS. J. HARCOURT-ROE, 




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A NOVEL. 


BY MRS. J. HARCOURT-ROE. 


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NEW YORK: 




GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
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THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH 


INTRODUCTORY. 

A man in the prime of life, of good birth, fair means, great in- 
tellectual power; in good health, in the height of popularity, 
courted, flattered, run after; accessible to all, both rich and poor; 
ever doing good; full of vigor, life, earnestness, and courage; head 
and chief and scle governor in his parish; ruling every one, yet at 
the same time beloved, admired, respected, praised, and considered 
by every one. Such was the Rev. Theophilus Manley, Vicar of 
Newforth. 

Under the burning rays of a tropical sun, in an arid desert country, 
a worn, solitary, travel-stained man, his eyes bright with feverish 
fire, his hands bearing the marks of toil; without food, save a cake 
or two made by the filthy hands of black men from the coarsest 
grain; without friends, without a single companion; without 
clothes, save those he stood up in; without money, without reputa- 
tion, without hope, without faith. A man forsaken by all, and, it 
seemed, forsaken by his God. With a mind wrought up to such 
a pitch of unnatural activity, through bodily weakness, that 
thought coursed through his brain with a merciless rush; his ideas 
dwelling ceaselessly on the. various branches of theoretical phi- 
losophy — more especially on the highest treating of the essences of 
things eternal; on sciences, on art, on poetry, but finding pleasure 
in none of them; with a rich and gorgeous imagination, distorted 
and strained; with a soul full of pain and grief; with a body 
a stranger to any physical comfort; without consolation in the 
past, without prospect in the future. Such was the Rev. The- 
ophilus Manley, ex*Vicar of Newfoith. 

And after? 


CHAPTER I. 

MR. MANLEY’S ARRIVAL. 

“ Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!” These words were spoken by 
the Rev. Theophilus Manley, M.A., as he stood in front of the 


6 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


parish church of Hewforth, in company with IVir. Leslie, the vicar’s 
warden. 

“You may well say, ‘Oh, dear,” replied Mr. Leslie; “the. 
church is a disgrace to the town.” 

“ The fabric of the building is well enougn, and the site is beau- 
tiful. How came the church in such a state of neglect and decay?” 

“ The late vicar was eighty years cld, long past his work. Ho 
one saw to anything, no one cared about anything.” 

“But did not you— the congregation — care?” 

Mr. Leslie smiled. 

“ My dear sir, my experience has told me that where the root is 
dead, the branches will die. An earnest vicar makes an earnest 
congregation. Did we care? Speaking frankly, 1 don’t think we 
did care, but it is still possible that we may.” 

Mr. Manley looked around him. The church-yard was choked 
with weeds and rubbish, piles of timber were suffered to rest 
against the base of the tower, the walls were dirty and discolored. 

Inside matters were worse. There was not even common clean- 
liness. Mold and mildew broke out in large patches; most cf the 
stained-glass windows had been broken and replaced by squares of 
common glass; the really handsome carving over the chancel was 
effaced, the pews were getting rotten, the church furniture was 
deplorable. 

“This is shocking,” said Mr. Manley, as he, with a quick 
glance, tool* in the various details. 

“ Well,” replied Mi. Leslie, cheerfully, “ 1 suppose it is. But, 
after all, it is so precious little that any of us are in church that 
does it matter very much?” 

Mr. Manley did not enunciate his views on this point; he smiled 
and said, “ I feel on the subject, only perhaps more strongly, as a 
cclonel of a regiment would do if he saw his men on parade in rags 
and (atters, or the captain of a ship were his vessel dismantled and 
dirty, or as you perhaps might feel, Mr. Leslie, if the law couits 
were a living scandal; but 1 can not expect you to look at these 
matters with my eyes he paused, and looked straight at the 
waiden— “ at present.” 

“ Or ever,” returned Mr. Leslie, amicably; “ and 1 can not help 
saying that if you accept this living and ccrne to Hewforth, I pity 
you, sir— that is to say, for the fiist year, at least.” 

“Is nothing going on in the parish?” 

“ There is nothing; 1 can not say these things are in my line, 
and that personally I care much.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


7 


The prospective vicar looked at Mr. Leslie— a tall, handsome, 
energetic-looking young man. “ I will make that man care soon,” 
he thought. 

“ After all,” continued the warden, V as 1 said about the church, 
does it matter much? Granted that we don’t meddle with the 
amount of beer aud tobacco consumed by the working-man, that 
we don’t regulate his literature and pry into his sanitary arrange- 
ments and order his amusements— 1 dare say he is very much 
obliged to us for not interfering. If 1 choose to give a beggar six- 
pence, I may, and enjoy the feeling that 1 am doing a good action. 
Here we have no charity organization to tell me I am committing 
a crime by so acting, and to sift all our characters for us before we 
can get a bit of bread to eat. Why,” said Mr. Leslie, energetical- 
ly, “ should not a poor woman require assistance when in deep 
poverty because, perhaps ten years ago, her husband stole three 
pennyworth of apples?” 

“ You are entering upon a very wide subject,” said Mr. Manley, 
laughing; “ and as 1 do not happen to entirely agree with you we 
will not discuss it at present. Suppose we go and see the vicarage 
instead.” 

The gate on the south side, that nearest to the vicarage, was 
locked. Mr. Manley tried to open it in vain. 

“ The key is lost,” said Mr. Leslie; “ has been lost for the last 
twelvemonth. We don’t trouble curselves to repair damages; we 
are such a happy-go-lucky parish, you know.” 

Mr. Manley put his hand on the top, and vaulted over. Mr. 
Leslie followed his example. 

“1 suppose that wasn’t very clerical,” said Mr. Manley; “but 
no one saw me, and it will save time.” 

Mr. Leslie laughed; he thought he should like a man who could 
jump over a gate. 

“ What a beautiful view of the harbor and shipping you have 
here!” said Mr. Manley; “ the church, being on a hill, must be 
quite a sea-mark.” 

“ It would be, if the spire were built,” returned Mr. Leslie. 

“Why do you not build it?” 

“ We build it — we do anything? My dear sir, we are stagnant, 
we are dead; there is only one thing we glory in, and that is the 
dignity of our dullness.” 

“ How long has the church been built?” 

“ Fifty years.” 


8 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


“ That spire shall be built before two years are over,” thought 
Mr. Manley. 

“You would like to see the vicarage before making up your 
mind,’’ said Mr. Leslie, leading the way to a moderate-sized bu fc 
not uncomfortable house, standing in a small garden. From the 
back windows an extensive view of the sea was obtainable. 

The furniture left by the late vicar was plain but neat, the car- 
pets were somewhat worn, but everything was in fairly good order. 

“ 1 suppose I can take all this at a valuation,” said Mr. Manley. 

“Is it good enough?” 

The prospective vicar laughed. “ It is quite good enough for a 
bachelor, and 1 have no idea of taking a wife.” 

“ We do not want for young ladies here.” 

“ 1 like young ladies,” said Mr. Manley, with a smile; “ but 1 
don’t want a wife.” 

“ ‘ Higgledy piggledy. needles and pins, 

When a man’s married his trouble begins,’ ” 

quoted Mr. Leslie, with a glance to see if the other were scandal- 
ized. But, on the contrary, Mr. Manley did not appear at all scan- 
dalized. He laughed. 

He was a slight man, rathei over middle height, with a well- 
built, athletic figure. He had r well shaped, close-cropped head, 
dark hair, clean-shaven cheeks. His broad, square brow, straight, 
fine nose, and delicately cut, though firm, mouth conveyed an im- 
pression of great intellectual power, combined with the keenest 
quick-witted common sense. He was thirty -five years of age, but 
in the distance did not look more than twenty -five, and on a near 
view not more than twenty-eight. 

“ I have made up my mind to accept the living,” he said, at 
length; “ and I should now like to ask why every one spends less 
time in this than in other churches?” 

“ To begin with,” replied Mr. Leslie, “ we lacked opportunity. 
I dare say, in these Newman-Pusey church-revival days, it won’t 
be believed that this church was open only on Sunday morning, 
and once in a long way in the evening. When Mr. Smith first 
came he used to give cut, ‘ There will be no service this evening, 
as 1 have a cold in my head, or an ache m my little finger.’ ” 

Here he saw Mr. Manley looking at him with some gravity. He 
continued somewhat hurriedly: 

“ I really can’t remember his exact words, you know; it was so 
long ago. But gradually all excuses were given up, and it became 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 9 

an acknowledged fact that tlie church was only open once on the 
Sunday and never onihe week-days, unless some great man wanted 
his baby christened. Nothing so infra dig. as having your child 
christened unless you have the place to yourself obtains in New- 
forth! Oh, dear, no!” 

“If lack of opportunity were the only reason — ” 

Mr. Manley was here interrupted by the warden, 

“1 am afraid not the only reason.” 

“That reason,” continued the prospective vicar, cheerfully, 
“can soon be done away with. Is the church well attended cn 
Sunday morning?” 

'* Well attended!” echoed Mr. Leslie, who seemed to take a cer- 
tain pride in the dismalness of the situation. ‘ ‘ The church holds 
twelve hundred people, and we think ourselves lucky if four hun- 
dred come. 

“ Where do the people go?” 

“ Anywhere, or more probably nowhere. Some few to chapel, 
still fewer to more distant churches.” 

“We will get them back. It should be the pride of the parish 
church that her people do not care to go elsewhere.” 

Mr. Leslie shrugged his shoulders. 

“ 1 am afraid you are gcing to undertake a herculean task.” 

“ 1 am quite aware there will be difficulties, but we can only try 
to surmount them. You must help me, Mr. Leslie; my church- 
warden is my right-hand man.” 

“ 1?” repeated Mr. Leslie, scarcely believing his ears; “ I assure 
you 1 am no use whatever; 1 do nothing, or next door to it.” 

“ We will make you of use,” said Mr. Manley, laughing. 

“ You can’t make me do what goes against the grain, sir.” 

“By no means; we shall go with the grain.” 

“1 doubt it.” returned the church- warden; “you had better 
look out fcr a better man than I.” 

“ How do the people amuse themselves?” 

“ Do you mean by the people the working-man?” 

“1 do,” replied Mr. Manley. 

“ Where have you come from, sir?” asked Mr. Leslie, almost 
iu a tone of injury. “ Did you ever know the British workman 
amuse himself otherwise than in the public-house?” 

“ 1 certainly have,” replied Mr. Manley, briskly. 

“ Then I have not. Beer, skittles, a fight, and a summons — 
these; 1 take it, are the British workman ’3 amusements. 1 am 
quite content that they should be. 1 am not a philanthropist, and 


10 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


if 1 were 1 should not move. For every time a gentleman laughs 
a working-man ‘ on the spree ’ will laugh twenty times; ergo , he is 
the happier of the two, or if he isn’t he ought to be. He doesn’t 
care if 1 play billiards, and I don’t care if he gets drunk— so long as 
he is quiet.” 

A look of gravity again overspread Mr. Manley’s countenance, 
which the church warden quickly perceived. 

“ Notwithstanding my heathen sentiments, Mr. Manley, will you 
dine with me to-day, and be introduced to my wife? We might 
take a walk in the interval, as it is her ‘ At Home ’ day, and I am 
sure you don’t want to meet all the ladies that are now drinking 
tea.” 

“ Many thanks! 1 shall be most happy to dine with you another 
day,” said the vicar, his bright look restored; ‘‘but I must now 
return to town. Good-bye, and l shall hope to see you again soon.” 

Mr. Leslie’s house stood in its cwn grounds, some five minutes’ 
walk from the church. He was a man of means and taste; both 
garden and house were in perfect order. He stood in the hall, and 
listened to the clatter of teacups and clash of tongues. A tail, 
handsome, dark-eyed girl caught sight of him through the open 
drawing-room door, and joined him. 

“lam rejoiced to see you, Mr. Leslie,” she said, energetically. 

“ I am equally pleased to see you, Miss Hatton: so glad you’re 
glad, and all that sort of thing, you know; but what is my special 
attraction at this present moment?” 

“Do you see those people in there?” 

“ Ves— how on earth am 1 to shake hands with them all?” 

“Oh, never mind that; they have been here more than two 
hours, and during the whole of that time there has been one ever- 
lasting subject of conversation. I’m so glad to see ycu, because 
1 think there may now be a reasonable prospect of its coming to 
an end.” 

“ What is the subject?— scandal of some sort, 1 presume.” 

“Not a word; it would have been infinitely more amusing to 
have listened to something ill-natured (we are so fond of our best 
friends, you know), than 1o have heard one continuous stream of 
praise.” 

“ Praise of whom?” 

“ The subject has been the supposed— and no doubt invented- 
perfections of the proposed vicar, Mr. Manley. 1 quite dislike him 
in consequence, before 1 have even seen him.” 

*' X wouldn’t be the proposed vicar for something. But 1 will 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


11 


tell you a great secret. He has accepted the living, and is coming 
here as soon as possible.’' 

*' How do you know?” 

“ 1 was with him at the church this afternoon.” 

” Were you?” exclaimed Miss Hatton, her eyes sparkling. “ Oh, 
what is he like?” 

“ 1 declare, you are as bad as the rest; l thought you were sick 
of the subject. He was — well, he was like a clergyman.” 

44 Don’t be so provoking. Is he handsome, and does he look 
nice and clever?” 

Mr. Leslie laughed. 

“1 am not going to make my information too cheap. 1 shall 
forcibly change the subject. Now, doesn’t our drawing-room look 
exactly like a china-shop? It always reminds me of a hall sur- 
rounded with kitchen dressers, which are covered with crockery 
ware. My wife will have plates and cups in every imaginable 
place, even above the portiere.” 

“It is such a beautiful china,” returned Miss Hatton; ”1 al- 
ways admire your drawing-room so much, and it is so well-propor- 
tioned.” 

44 It is well-proportioned enough, I grant you, and it costs me a 
good sum of money every year, in order that I may live up to it, 
furnish it with its requisite plants, and so on.” 

As he spoke, a vision of the dirty, neglected church rose before 
him; somehow his conscience accused him. He thought of Mr. 
Manley’s words, 44 We will make you of use,” but he shook his 
head over them. 

His wife looked up, and beckoned to him. 

41 1 must go now, Miss Hatton, alas! but 1 will tell you the news 
soon.” 

He wended his way slowly through the tea-drinking groups, and 
stood beside Mrs. Leslie, a pretty woman of some eight-and-twenty, 
with dark curly hair. 

44 How late you are, Frank!” she said, in a low voice. 

44 It is a most extraordinary thiDg, my dear; but in spite of the 
attractions of these halls of dazzling light on your 4 At Home ’ 
days, those are the days in which 1 invariably find myself late. 
Can’t account for it anyhow! No wonder you are glad to see me. 
What a bore it must be for you women to have no men to talk 
with. I wonder an air of resigned boredom doesn’t pervade the 
whole assemblage.” 

44 Vou are too bad, Mr, Leslie,'’ said Miss Ethel Hatton, an ex- 


12 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


ceeding pretty, soft-maanereci girl, bearing no resemblance to her 
sister. “We have all been very happy without any gentleman.” 

“ Am I too bad? Then 1 will make my peace. I hear you have 
been talking all the afternoon about the new vicar.” 

“ That is quite true. We hear he is charming, and, besides 
being a good man has brilliant abilities; that he took every prize 
at his school, and every kind of honor at Cambridge; that he was 
senior wrangler; and, in slicrt, I don’t know what he wasn’t.” 

“ All 1 can say is,” returned Mr. Leslie, “ that he did not talk 
one word of Latin or Greek to me, and— he jumped over a gate.” 

“ What an extraordinary thing for him to do! Tell us some- 
thing more.” 

“ Don’t you think 1 ought to make my information public?” 
A curious expression of mischief overspread his face as he con- 
tinued, 

“ ‘ There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood—’ ’’ 

Mrs. Leslie interrupted him. “We have heard that quotation 
before, Frank!” 

“ Without a doubt, but not in connection with myself. 1 now 
see my way to becoming famous through the medium of another, 
by the reflected light of the new vicar.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“You shall see.” 

He procured a high footstool and stood on it, then rapped with 
a teaspoon on the tatle to secure the attention of his audience. 

“ Ladies,” he began, solemnly, “ unaccustomed as 1 am to pub- 
lic speaking, yet the importance of my subject must be my excuse 
for thus exposing my feeble oratorical efforts to your trenchant, 
your brilliant criticism.” 

“ What are you about, Frank?” said Mrs. Leslie. 

“Ladies,” he continued, “prepare yourselves for one of the 
most staitling announcements it is in my power to make. Although 
we in this town of ISewforth boast of a large population, of scores 
of gay villas, of numberless bright roads and streets, of a mayor 
and corporation, of an esplanade and sea-wall, of a brass band 
(which, in parenthesis, some people have the bad taste to wish fur- 
ther), of a parish church — and such a parish church! of several 
chapels, of some eminent lawyers, of whom 1 am the greatest— (in 
fact, were it not for my natural modesty, I might describe myself 
as the glory of Newforth)— by the way, wheie was I?” 

“ Where were you, indeed!” said Mrs. Leslie. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP HEWPORTH. 13 

“ Ladies,” he continued, “ time would fail me were 1 to enumer- 
ate all the attractions of Newforth; but one advantage we have 
not had of late we have not had a vicar. Having now opened the 
subject with, I trust, becoming gravity, 1 will now make the an- 
nouncement which will, 1 trust, fill your minds with wonder and 
delight. Prepare yourselves, calm yourselves, 1 beg. 1 have seen 
the new vicar ; further, he is an unmarried man! 1 ' 

A burst of laughter followed this speech, not so much at its sub- 
stance as at the ludicrous manner in which it was delivered. 

“ TeI1 us some more,” said Miss Hatton, who had re-entered the 
room long since. 

“ W i tli pleasure,” he said; “ the statement is so amazing that 1 
beg to assure you 1 am speaking truthfully— he said he liked young 
ladies!’' and Mr. Leslie sat down. 

“Do talk a little sense, Frank,” said his wife; “did you like 
him or not?” 

“ 1 liked him very much.” 

“ And what do you think of him as a vicar?” 

“ 1 thiDk seems a very good sort of fellow; but I know that he 
is all there.” 


CHAPTER 11. 

CRITICISM. 

The congregation, more numerous than usual— but, alas! the 
scanty congregation— had mostly assembled in unwonted good time 
in the church yard, for Mr, Manley was to take his first duty that 
morning. 

There were Admiral and Mrs. Hatton wdth their daughters; Miss 
Hatton brilliant in gray, with dashes of crimscn; Miss Ethel fresh 
as a daisy, in white— it was a bright June morning and the sun 
was shining hotly— and talking to them were Mr. and Mrs. Leslie. 

“ 1 really think we ought to go in now,” said Mrs. Hatton; “ it 
is almost eleven.” 

“I wonder if Mr. Manley will be punctual,” said Mrs. Leslie- 
“don’t you remember pool old Mr. Smith used to saunter down 
the road, at a quarter past eleven, stopping to talk to every one he 
met.” 

“ And making those of us who were punctual in a state of exas- 
peration past description,” said Miss Hatton. 

“We will give the- new vicar the benefit of the doubt, and go 


14 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


in,” said Mr. Leslie. “Not but what the old system had its ad- 
vantages, because we could be, and nearly always were, late. 1 
have a dim sort of idea that the church-wardens ought to be in the 
vestry before the service and after; what do you say, Admiral Hat- 
ton?” turning to his co-church-warden. 

“1 know nothing at all about it,” answered the people’s repre- 
sentative— a fine, hale old man, with white hair and a jolly-looking, 
though withal somewhat fiery, countenance. 

“ 1 really wish some one would tell me my duties, if 1 have any 
duties,” said Mr. Leslie. “ In poor cld Smith’s time every one did 
that which was right iu his own eyes, but 1 am somewhat afraid 
that this man will keep us up to the mark. I hate to be kept up to 
the mark. Ah, theie are the Allens;” as a stout lady of a rather 
forbidding countenance entered the church, accompanied by her 
son and daughter. “ She loves the chief places in the synagogues, 
and has accordingly signified her intention of taking the front pew. 
They have only lately come to Newforth. She is a rich widow, 
whose husband lived in Chili.” 

“ We really must go in,” said Mrs. Hatton. 

They had barely taken their seats when the clock struck eleven, 
and, punctually to a moment, the new vicar came forth from the 
vestry alone, for a surpliced choir was a thing unknown in New- 
forth. 

His quick glance took in at once the rows of expectant and in- 
quisitive faces. In that one brief survey he could have told within 
twenty how many people were in the church. He shortened the 
service considerably. By twenty minutes to one the congregation 
were dismissed. 

“ 1 must say this is a great improvement on Mr. Smith,” said 
Mr. Leslie; “ he used to go droning on till long past one; but with 
this corresponding advantage— we never listened to him; our minds 
were in a state of beautiful repose. I’m afraid we sha’n’t be able 
to help listening to this man. How did you like him, Miss Ethel?” 

The girl’s face lit up. 

“ 1 thought it was admirable,” she answered, simply. 

“ What, the sermon? There were no grand words in it that I 
heard.” 

“Indeed, no; but it was so quiet, so peaceable, so earnest, so 
plain, so logically constructed — and, above all, so heartfelt.” 

Mr. Leslie felt inclined to laugh — the thoughtful look on her face 
deterred him. . 

“ Yes, it was certainly logical; he had something to say, and he 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 15 

said it— which is more than many men know how to do. There is 
nothing easier, with a certain amount of education, than to string 
together a number of high-sounding phrases, which, taken collect- 
ively, mean nothing; and to preach what may pass muster, with 
people whose culture stops short at a certain point, as a most elo- 
quent sermon. 1 could do it myself.” 

Ethel laughed. 

“ 1 es, you may well laugh at the idea of my preaching, but 1 
couldn’t give you a sermon such as we have just had. 1 dare say 
Mr. Manley took a vast deal longer to prepare it than if he had 
talked about the Astounding Realities of the Transcendental. And 
1 snould say no man knew better than he exactly how much, or 
rather, how little, such phrases are worth.” 

“ He has a very beautiful voice,” said Mrs. Leslie. 

“ Hon’t you think it’s a little melancholy?” asked Miss Hatton, 
joining them. 

“ Oh. no,” returned Mrs. Leslie, warmly; “ it is so full of feel- 
ing. It is the voice of a thorough gentleman. There are two points 
which no half-and-half man ever has, a really refined voice and 
good hands— by which 1 do not mean white hands.” 

‘‘ Can’t we change the subject?” said Mr. Leslie; “ we have had 
a very good dose of ‘ vicar ’ as it is. Let us take a turn on the 
cliffs.” 

He led the way across the green to the cliffs rising from the 
beach. On the pier below the townspeople were walking to and fro. 

“ Thi s is very nice,” remarked Mr. Leslie, looking at them and 
the shipping; ** it gives me quite a benevolent feeling, as if I were 
a public benefactor, without the bother.” 

“ How much better it is to shorten the service,” said Mrs. Leslie; 

“ one can attend far better, and one doesn’t find one’s self wishing 
it were over. I hope the vicar will be equally judicious with the 
other services.” 

“ Vicar again!” leplied her husband; “ 1 shall call out ‘ Taboo ' 
whenever his name is mentioned, for 1 really can’t stand much 
more of it. Here is Campbell,” as a young naval lieutenant ap- 
proached. “ Now, Miss Hatton, 1 will leave you, and with sorrow 
resign my post in his favor.” 


16 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


CHAPTER 111. 

MISS ETHEL. 

It was a magnificent morning when Mr. Manley left his house at 
six o’clock, for his usual swim from the rocks round the pcint. 
The sun shone in his eyes as he leaped from stone to stone; the 
blue sea was washing and eddying at his feet, filling the pools, and 
murmuring a delicious little soothing melody. Out seaward two 
fishing-boats were making their way to the next village on the 
coast. 

His swim over, the vicar threw stones inlo the water and sung in 
the very joy of his heart. How could he be otherwise than joyful 
on such a morning? He walked slowly along the beach toward a 
little fishing-cove; the houses, numbering some five or six in all, 
were built on the beach. The fishermen were mending their nets, 
their boats drawn up on the shingle, crab and lobster pots were 
scattered about on the sands. A little girl ol some five or six years 
of age had pulled her father’s red cap over her head and eyes, and 
was stumbling about among ihe pebbles some hundreds of yards 
away irom the houses. Suddenly she fell, striking her knee sharply 
against a rock. A loud cry ensued. 

“Hullo!” said Mr. Manley, cheerfully, and taking her in his 
arms as he spoke, “ what is the matter?” 

The child stopped crying out of sheer surprise, and pointed to 
her Knee. The vicar sat down on a rock, saying, “ Let me examine 
the wound— 1 will be the doctor.” 

A few scratches appeared on the surface of the skin. He took a 
small surgical case from his pocket, and cutting a strip of plaster 
placed it on the little girl’s knee, telling her a wonderful story the 
while about a giant. 

“ X think,” he continued after a little while, “ that we now re- 
quire a cake plaster. Do you know what that is?” 

The child shook her head. 

“ Cake plasters are the most wonderful healers of children’s 
wounds and sorrows, but unfortunately 1 do not carry them in my 
pockets. 1 wonder if a penny would have the same effect.” 

“ Now, does it hurt you to walk, dear?” he asked, kindly. 

The little girl took a step or two, but screwed up her brown face 
with an expression of pain. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEW FORTH. 


17 


“Don’t try,” said llie vicar, lilting her again in his arms; “1 
will carry you home. Whose little girl are you?” 

“ There is father,” she replied, poiuting to one of the fishermen. 

“ 1 will take you to him. Now, you have been a brave little girl, 
and this penny is yours.” 

The child’s eyes sparkled with pleasure; she pushed back her 
sun-bonnet and gave the vicar a hearty kiss, which he returned in 
quietei fashion. The fisherman, a bronzed, stalwart man of forty, 
left his nets and advanced to meet them. 

“ Thank you kindly, sir, for picking up my little maid; she’s a 
heavy weight to carry.” 

“ 1 will recruit myself by sitting down and having a little chat 
with you, if you will continue your work,” said the vicar, with a 
smile, taking a seat as he spoke on a boat turned upside down. A 
chip of wood lay beside him; he took it up and began to carve a 
grotesque figure with his penknife for the child’s amusement. 

“ Aou have chosen a very pretty spot to live in,” he said; “ I 
have never been so far before. Those cliffs at the back of your 
houses would make a charming sketch. 1 must come and pay you 
all a visit soon.” 

“Glad to see ’ee, sir,” returned the man, heartily; “we don’t 
see many folk here; this is a lonesome little cove.” 

“ What distance are you from Newfortk?” 

“Not above two miles, sii; but we are out of the way like. 
Many people don’t know there is a house here.” 

“ Indeed! 1 suppose these rocks shut you in. And how do you 
fare in the winter?” 

The fisherman shook his head. 

“It is lonesome, sir, as 1 said; the Newforth lolk don’t know 
whether we be alive or dead.” 

“ If my company will be appreciated, 1 shall be most happy to 
bestow some of it on you; I think 1 must make a point of coming 
out. here once a week.” As he spoke, he made a note in his pocket- 
book. 

“ You are out eaily to-day, sir.” 

“ 1 am always out early in fine weather. 1 have been swimming 
round that buoy,” pointing to a black object some half-mile out. 

“ Lor’!” said the fisherman, in amazement, “ 1 never knew any 
one like you could swim.” 

' “ Do you know who 1 am?” . 

“ I suppose you be a minister of some sort; I thought they was 
always at book-learnin’, or jawin’ at people.” 


18 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ I am the Vicar of Newtorlh,” rejoined Mi. Manley, with a 
smile; “ and 1 trust when 1 come to see you 1 shall do very little in 
the * jawin’ ’ line. ” 

“ No offense, sir; no, I don’t think you will. Any little ones of 
your own, sir?” as the child ran up and perched herself on the 
vicar's knee. 

“No; I am not a married man, but I am very fond of little 
ones.’' 

He put a few queries as to the number and names of the inhabit- 
ants of the cove. 

“ And whose is that cottage which stands further back than all 
the others, beneath the shelter of the ‘cliff?’’ 

“That belongs to Mrs. Stevens; she is a respectable body. Her 
husband was di owned last year, and she has no children.” 

“ Poor soul! she must indeed be lonely.” 

“ She lets lodgings in the summer; her rooms are small, but they 
are neat and clean.” 

Without knowing why he did sc, the vicar made a note of this 
information also, little thinking of the sad fruit it would one day 
bear. lour men came down to the sands, dragging a boat with 
them, and calling to the father of the chid. Mr. Manley spoke a 
tew kindly words to them, and went his way. 

Ascending the cliff by a circuitous path he turned his back on the 
sea, and looked down on Newforth. He could see the streets, the 
villas, the tall buildings, the chapels, and above all, he could see 
the poor, neglected parish church, which he was now closely con- 
nected with, and which he had made up his mind^to love. 

The buoyancy of his spirits left him. As he looked at the town 
a grave and solemn mood came over him, for he was one of those 
rare clergymen whose whole heart and mind and soul are in their 
work. A great dread came over him as he thought of the thou- 
sands of people living so near, and of the neglect and indifference 
which had eaten into their very soul. But there were far worse 
than neglect and indifference, there were active agencies for evil. 
How now to counteract these influences? What was he, single- 
handed, to do? 

He remembered the night before bis ordination, when the respon- 
sibilities he was going to take on himself had well-nigh appalled 
him, when the thought that he might personally have to answer 
tor the souls of those committed to his charge had all but caused 
him to refuse to take these vows on himself at all. But never since 
lie had been ordained bad these responsibilities seemed to press on 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


19 


him so heavily as now; he was about to undertake a fight, as it 
were, against overwhelming numbers. But being a man of indomi- 
table will and great courage, and possessing, moreover, the strong- 
est faith in the personal providence and direction' of God, his heart 
did not fail him now. 

Although he had been so short a time in New forth he had al- 
ready perceived that his congregation did not pull together. To 
use the words of one of the society papers, with regard to a similar 
congregation, 44 Every one thought that nearly every one else was a 
'person,' and although they might -be compelled to associate with 
one another in a better world, they wished to see as little of one 
another as possible on the road.” 

Long and earnestly did the vicar revolve in his own mind how 
the existing state of things was to be altered, for — O, most rare 
clergyman! he had a strong idea that brotherly kindness was a 
virtue enjoined not only on the rich, in connection with the poor, but 
was also one that ought to be practiced among the well-to-do them- 
selves; and that, when it did not exist, it was the parson’s duty to 
call it into being. That he must get his people not only to sym- 
pathize with, but to work with him, he knew full well, being 
quite aware that in all matters, temporal as well as spiritual, the 
pie in which one has had a finger has a totally different flavor to 
that made' by a strange cook; and although he did net deal at the 
stores he had a great respect for the virtues of co-operation! 

“ If I preach to them, except in church, they will think it a bore, 
and turn the cold shoulder; whatever 1 do 1 must not weary them,” 
he said, thoughtfully. 

And then a plan arose in his mind; forthwith he decided on his 
line of action. As he stood musing, the clock struck eight. 

41 Breakfast-time!” he exclaimed, and began to descend the cut- 
ting in the cliff. A young lady, Miss Ethel Hatton, was coming 
down the road at some little distance, dressed in a fresh print gown 
and large straw hat; on her arm she carried a basket containing moss 
and ferns. He scrutinized her face attentively as she sauntered 
along, unconscious of observation. There was a certain freedom 
of walk and grace of movement about her which attracted his at- 
tention, but it was her face he most admired. It was not her fair- 
complexion, her sunny brown hair, her bright golden-brown eyes, 
that took his fancy so much as her expression, and the sweetness 
of her mouth. 

44 That is a good face; a very good face,” he thought, for he was 
a keen observer of physiognomy; “ it is a most conscientious face.” 


20 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


She passed on slowly, when, suddenly looking up, she saw the 
vicar, who raised his hat. She blushed crimson as she bowed to 
him. A donkey cart wus coming up the road, the boy in charge 
was lagging behind. Ethel’s thoughts were abstracted; the donkey 
took a mean advantage of the circumstance, and swerved violently 
to the left. The cart struck her, and knocked her down. 

In a moment the vicar was by her side. He raised her, and 
ascertaining that there was no gieat damage done, turned to the 
lad; but he, thinking an awkward inquiry imminent, had taken 
to his heels, and the donkey was jogging slowly on in the middle 
of the road. 

“ Are you much hurt?” asked Mr. Manley, seeing how white 
the girl’s face had become. 

“ No,” she returned, with a somewhat unsteady smile. I am 
a good deal shaken, that is all.” 

“ You are the second damsel in distiess that 1 have succored this 
morning,” he said, with a laugh; ‘‘but 1 am afraid it is no use 
offering you a penny or a cake plaster. I believe you are more 
frightened than hurt, although the shock of your fall could not 
have been inconsiderable. Take my arm.” 

She did so, and he saw she was trembling violently. 

“ The vicarage is much nearer than your house,” he said, kindly; 
'* you must go in there and rest. 1 will put you under my cook’s 
care, while I go and tell your mother.” 

“ Thank you,” she replied, “ a few minutes’ rest is all 1 want.” 

“ And what took you out so early, if I may ask. Miss Ethel?” 

*‘ 1 often gather terns before breakfast tournament the table; we 
have plenty of flowers in our garden, but no ferns.” 

“Perhaps I can persuade Mrs. Jonson, my cook, to favor me 
similarly,” said the vicar, with a slight twinkle in his eye. “ At 
present 1 believe she looks on all table decoration of that sort as 
‘ messes;’ personally, 1 have a great love for flowers.” 

He opened the vicarage door with his latch-key, and led the way 
into the dining-room. A very white cloth was on the table, but 
the china and appointments were ot the plainest. He rang the bell. 
The cook appeared, bearing a dish of ham and eggs, followed by 
Sarah Jane, the house-maid, with the urn and coffee-pct. 

“ 1 did not ring for breakfast, Mrs. Jonson,” said the vicar to 
the astonished cook, “ but to ask you to take care of this young 
lady for a short time, while I go out. She has been knocked down 
by a cart.” 

“ La, miss! No bones broke, 1 hope,” said Mrs. Jonson, in some 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 21 

alarm, hastily casting in her mind whether in that case she would 
have to be nursed in the house, and turn everything there upside- 
down. 

Ethel laughed. 

“ There is really nothing the matter with me; 1 am so much bet- 
ter that 1 am sure I can get home now.” 

*' Ygu will oblige me by remaining a little while,” said the vicar, 
with much decision in his voice. “ I will return with your father 
or sister in a few minutes, and meantime you can not do better than 
eat some breakfast.” 

“ And you too, sir,” put in Mrs. Jonson. *' You have been out 
these two hours, and must want your food. If you sit down now 
with the young lady, and have your breakfast comfortable like, 
Sarah Jane can lun round to the admiral’s in less than no time.” 

Sarah Jane, a stout, good-tempered young woman, looked as if 
she would rather remain where she was. It occurred to the vicar 
that the arrangement might not lack in comfort, although it would 
want sadly, in propriety; and then, as the idea of the fearful, hide- 
ous scandal that would forthwith arise in^Newforth passed through 
his mind, he laughed, while Ethel again blushed scarlet. 

“ I can go in less time than Sarah, thank you, Mrs. Jonson,” he 
replied, quietly, and taking up his hat went out. 

“ Shall 1 give you some breakfast, miss,” said Mrs. Jonson, 
somewhat shortly. 

“ Thank you, no /” returned Ethel, promptly; “T would much 
rather not have any;” and she too thought of the remarks which 
would ensue in Newfcrth. 

“ Then I will take it down again, and keep it hot for the mas- 
ter,” returned the cook, quickly, and seizing up the dishes for fear 
Ethel might change her m&d. Her back once turned, Sarah Jane 
began to indulge her curiosity to the full. 

“ Do tell, miss, how it happened,” she began, “ and, now that 
master is out, wouldn’t you like to step upstairs with me and make 
sure there ain’t no broken bones anywheres?” 

The situation was becoming worse and worse; was it not enough 
to invade the vicar’s dining-room, but she must also trespass on his 
upstairs premises? 

“ There are no bones broken,” she replied, coldly. “ 1 was very 
.much shaken by my fall, and felt very faint for a short time; that 
is all. ” 

Seeing that, the house-maid’s inquisitive eyes were fixed on her 
face, Ethel turned away, and looked straight at the table. But. 


22 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

the watchful Sarah Jane would not thus be baffled in her efforts 
for conversation. 

“ Yes, miss, the breakfast service is plain— disgraceful plain to 
my taste, which bdare say is what you’re thinking of.” 

Ethel immediately disclaimed any thought of the kind. 

“ But you see, miss,” continued the undaunted Sarah Jane, 
** master, he made an agreement with cook when he hrst come. 1 
heard ’em talking of it through the door-way.” 

“ And what right had you to listen?” asked Ethel, sharply. 

The house-maid laughed. 

“ Says he, * Now, Mis. Jonson, I don’t want no trouble about 
housekeeping. 1 will give you so much a month, and you are to 
find everything, breakages and all, and if there is any money over 
we will give it away in soup to the sick poor ’ — which I thinks a 
mistake. Sick poor, indeed! as if master weren’t wcrth fifty sick 
poor.” 

“ Really,” said Ethel, “ 1 should much prefer net to hear the 
details of the vicar’s domestic arrangements.” 

This somewhat lofty speech was above the comprehension of the 
house-maid. 

“ And 1 heeid that cat of a Mrs. Jonson a-saying to him,” she 
continued, “ ‘ If I am to have a fixed sum every month, and pay 
for the breakages, Sarah Jane is fhat careless that 1 must put away 
all the best china.’ Anri master he laughed, and said he did not at 
all mind that, so long as he could have ever so many table-cloths. 
And though he don’t care much what he eats, it there is the least 
little spot on the table-cloth 1 daren’t lay it again. And says he: ‘ 1 
don't wish you to starve me, Mrs. Jonson, and you are by no means 
to starve yourselves; but if you are careful in the housekeeping, 
it wiil be all the better for my poor people.’ So Mrs. Jonson, she 
says: * Me and master will do this;’ and, miss, she is that mean in 
the kitchen new, that 1 daren’t ask for more than two helpings of 
meat for dinner; the only p’int in her favor is that she do look out 
for master/’ 

Ethel went tc the window, and caught sight of the vicar and 
her sister walking along briskly. She went to meet them. 

“This is an improvement!” said Mr. Manley; “ I suppose break- 
fast has revived you. Really, 1 was somewhat uneasy about you, 
you looked so pale.” 

“ 1 do wish you wouldn’t be so moony, Ethel,” added her sis- 
ter, sharply; “ do you suppose 1 should have let a donkey-cart run 
over me ?” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF Is EW FORTH. 23 

“ It shows me how great your relief is at finding your sister un- 
injured, Miss Hatton,’* said the vicar, smiling, “ that you can scold 
her; we are always glad to find some vent, tor our feelings when 
they have been roused. But don’t he too hard on her.” 

“ i won’t,” answered Miss Hatton, laughing; ** but please do go 
in now, Mr. Manley, and have your breakfast, I am sure you must 
want it.” 

“ Do I look faint and exhausted?” he asked, with a laugh. 

“Ho; quite the reverse.” 

“ Then, in my capacity of doctor, 1 will see you as far as your 
gate. 1 did study surgery at one time.” 

. “ Why?” 

“ 1 knew it would be useful to me in a country parish. But 1 
must run in and fetch your basket, Miss Ethel, you have left it be- 
hind you.” 

He ran in as he said this, and overtook the girls in less than a 
minute, with an amused look on his face. 

“ Hot only were the ham and eggs gone, but the dish and coffee- 
pot also! You did not eat them, did you, Miss Ethel?” 

“ I—” began Ethel, looking confused, when the vicar interrupted 
her. 

” Ho, don’t explain; I am sure 1 understand the true state of the 
case. I am quite aware that Mrs. Jonson looks on every one as a 
mortal enemy who interferes with my breakfast or dinner; 1 have 
no doubt she scarcely gave you the opportunity of any breakfast.” 

The bend of the road brought them face to face with Admiral 
Hatton, who had finished his toilet in a prodigious hurry; which, 
perhaps, was the reason that his necktie was pushed under his ear, 
and his hair stood on end. 

“Here you are, my girl!” he exclaimed, heartily, holding out 
his hand to her as he spoke; “ we began to think something dread- 
ful was the matier. People who tell you about an accident nearly 
always hide the real truth.” 

'* That is not my custom,” answered Mr. Manley. 1 always 
think it best to state ihe exact circumstances;'’ and after a few fur- 
ther words he took his leave. 

At the garden gates Mis. Hatton appeared; a stout, kindly look- 
ing woman cf forty-five. She, too, had dressed hastily, and came 
forth minus a collar. 

“ What a relief to see you, my dear!” she exclaimed; “ the vicar 
gave us such a turn when he said you were at his hquse feeling 
faint. 1 thought it must be something much worse.” 


24 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“Truth must be a great rarity,” said Miss Hatton, somewhat 
scornfully, “ as, when a man is found who speaks it simply, no 
one believes him. Ethel felt faint, and the vicar said so, and we 
all thereupon imagined she was dead!” 

“ 1 hope the story won’t get about,” said Mrs, Hatton, a little 
anxiously, “ people do make such ill matured remarks. They might 
say she only made a pretense in order to see something of Mr. 
Manley.” 

“ Stuff an’ nonsense!” rejoined the admiral, testily. “ Kidic’lus! 
Let them say what they like.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE BRITISH "WORKMAN. 

The vicar was at his garden gate, a newspaper in his hand, when 
Mr. Leslie went by on his way to the tow T n. 

“ Good-morning,” said Mr. Manley; “you are the very man! 
wanted to see. I am now going to ask for your help.” 

“ 1 thought the ladies were to help you. I hear you have sum- 
moned a grand meeting of them to the vicarage this morning.” 

“ That is the case.” 

“ With a view to pauperizing thepaiish?” 

“ Kindly explain yourself,” returned the vicar, with a smile. 

“ Well, in other words, 1 heard you Were going to establish dis- 
trict visiting, which 1 suppose means giving money to working- 
men’s families who don’t want it. Talk about the "working-man!” 
said Mr. Leslie, with great energy, “ why, we are slaves to him! 
Whether the House of Lords will be done away with 1 don’t know 
— 1 am not much of a politician— -or whether England will ever 
be outwardly democratic I don’t care; but I do maintain that the 
working-man is in reality lord and master now.” 

“ How so?” 

“ 1 can’t drink a glass of wine because the * working-man ’ may 
find it a bad example for him; t can’t bet half a crown on a boat- 
race because the * working-man ’ should not gamble. 1 declare he 
is in every way first and foremost. Theoretically he is an intel- 
lectual person, who must have picture-galleries and museums open 
on Sundays to improve his dear mind (quite regardless of the fact 
that it deprives ever so many other people of their rest on Sunday); 
he must have libraries, and read Ruskin and Tennyson, and study 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 25 

the higher life and high ar! ; he must have the choicest photographs 
to adorn his "walls. Weil, perhaps ” — Mr. Leslie’s tone was ex- 
tremely dubious as he said this word—'* perhaps the London work- 
ing-man is that sort of a person, but, as far as the Newforth work- 
ing-man is concerned, 1 will tell you what he is like— and 1 ought 
to know, having had vast experience of him in these law-couils, 
and frequently seeing him, to use a forcible but graphic expression, 
* beastly drunk.* The Newforth working-man, as I before said, 
has only one idea, and that is beer. If there were fifty Ruskins 
and a hundred Tennysons, and two hundred and fifty picture-gal- 
leries and museums in this place, he would still spend his time on 
Sunday between bed and the public-house.” 

*‘ What more cogent argument could ycu possibly adduce for 
striving to reclaim him?” asked the vicar, quietly. 

“ 1 believe the effort hopeless, and you will only be laughed at 
for your pains.” 

“ I suppose,” said the vicar, holding out his paper, “ that you do 
not accuse the * Standard ’ of any sentimental leanings toward the 
Church?” 

‘‘No; the * Standard ’ is always moderate.” 

“ Have you Been it this morning?” 

“ No; I take the ‘ Times ’ and ‘ Telegraph,’ which X prefer.” 

4 ‘ Then I will read you a short passage from the leader of to- 
day : ‘ W hen we look out upon the mass of suffering and sorrow 
and vice which greets us in all our great cities, and know that the 
only class of men seriously engaged in combating it are the clergy, 
it seems little short of monstrous to protest against the extension of 
their influence. If they had ten times as much as they have, we 
might all be grateful for it.’ You see, some portion at least of 
the world does not think all effort hopeless.” 

Mr. Leslie shrugged his shouldeis. 

‘‘ With regard to pauperizing the people,” continued the vicar, 
with a smile, ‘‘ 1 do not propose tc do so. 1 will tell you how I 
wish to give. If 1 were ill and any kind friends sent me— let us say 
some beef-tea, cr jelly, or he laughed— ‘‘ or perhaps a mutton 
chop, or a pudding; if any one did so — ” 

“If?” interrupted Mr. Leslie. If you were ill, the ladies 
would send you cart-loads of jelly and grapes, barrels of beef-tea. 

I don’t know about the chops and the puddings,” he added, with a 
laugh, “ but there would doubtless be hampers of game.” 

“ And,” said the vicar, “ were I to see these cart-loads of which 
you speak (really, the Newforth people must be more generous than 


26 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


I gave them credit for!) unpacked before my very eyes, 1 should 
accept them gratefully in the spirit in which they were sent, and 
not feel in the least degree pauperized. Send a man to me who can 
work but won’t, and you won’t find I have anything to bestow on 
him except a few words of rather stern advice.” 

“ You may not, but the ladies will be imposed on.” 

'* Perhaps so; we must all buy our experience.”' 

Now, do you really .think that women are a morsekof good in 
the way of work, Mr. Manley?” 

” Decidedly they are of use.” 

My opinion,” said Mr. Leslie, energetically, “ is that they go 
at it with a rush, fer the ncvelty of the thing, and then get tired 
and give it up.” 

“ 1 grant you they aie sometimes not to be depended on, but is 
every mau of your acquaintance to be depended on? And for small 
acts of self-sacrifice give me a woman.” 

That’s all very well,” returned the church- warden, “ but you 
must be quite aware that half of them will come to-day to see 
you” 

“ I dare say they will,” replied the vicar, with a smile, for he 
was a thorough man of the world, clergyman notwithstanding; 
“ but, according to your own showing, the other half will have a 
belter motive.” 

Mr. Leslie perched himself on the gate-post, his long legs dangling 
on the ground; the vicar looked at his broad chest with approval. 

“ As I before said, you are the very man I want to help me.” 

“ What’s it about?” asked the warden, dubiously. “ I give you 
fair warning, Mr. Manley, I’m not going to be cajoled into doing 
anything in the way of poor and sick people j it isn’t in my line.” 

The vicar laughed. 

“ And,” continued Mr. Leslie, “ 1 think I ought to tell you that 
you have got the wrong sort of warden, and 1 seriously advise you 
to put up another man in my place next Easter.” 

“ It strikes me that I have got the right sort of warden, and I 
have no wish to change.” 

“ Perhaps Admiral Hatton and L had better exchange duties; 
I’m sure he would suit you better; and if 1 represent the people, I 
shouldn’t mind having an occasional argument with you if you 
innovate us too much.” 

“ Admiral Hatton would be of no use for the service J. am going 
to ask of you. It is not to visit the poor and sick.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


27 


“ Is it missions then — collecting money, or anything of that 
scrt? because I tell you frankly that 1 can’t bear missionaries.” 

“ Strongly as I sympathize both with home and foreign mis- 
sions, 1 am not going to ask you to assist in that manner. Try 
again.” 

“ It’s to give a subscription to something.” 

‘‘It is quite possible I may ask you to do so, but that is not 
the primary object of your help. I want you to get up a cricket 
club.” 

“Oh!” said the church- warden, vastly relieved. “Well, l 
shouldn’t mind doing that.” 

44 1 thought you would not, though it will give you a great deal 
of trouble.” 

“ How did you know I was a cricketer ?” 

“ Perhaps 1 evolved the fact out of my inner consciousness,” re- 
plied the vicar, laughing; *‘ but I knew that if you were not a, 
cricketer you ought to be, with your muscles. The fact is, there 
are a vasl number of young men and lads about this lown, who, 
not having yet arrived at the public-house stage, still get into ter- 
rible mischief for the sheer want of something to do. 1 want to 
get hold of them. We must induce them to join our club, and 
set them going to begin with. If it can do no gocd it can do no 
harm.” 

“ And am 1 to play with all these cads?” 

‘‘ Ycu are certainly to direct them how to play. I will come and 
play myself when 1 have time. I used to be a very fair bowler.” 

Mr. Leslie’s face brightened perceptibly. 

** It you are coming, we shall get along in fine style, and I think 
l can manage the first outlay in the way of stumps, bats and balls, 
etc.” 

“ Thank you very much; once fairly sjaited it should be self- 
supporting.” 

** Quite so!” 

44 And 1 hope after a time to get hold of these lads in other ways; 
get them to attend church, and so on.” 

44 1 hope I haven’t to be responsible for that /” exclaimed Mr. 
Leslie, in alaim. 

The vicar laughed heartily. 

44 By no means, I will take all that responsibility.” 

44 1 shouldn’t mind lending my field to play in; but I fear 1 
must be off now, or 1 shall be very late.” 

44 Good bye, then, and thank you very much, Our greatest difft- 


28 THE BACHELOK YICAK OF NEWFOBTH. 

culty is now removed at the cutset, for your field will be a capital 
place to play in.” 

“ .Now, what possessed me to offer that field?” thought Mr. 
Leslie as he walked on, “ when 1 positively refused it, even for 
one day, to the Dissenters last year. However, if I do go in for 
this business, I’ll go in for it thorcughly. 1 shall beat the vicar 
at single wicket, I’m sure.” 

The ladies assembled at the vicarage at half past eleven. Mr. 
Manley had given out a notice in church that he should be glad 
of a few ladies to assist him, therefore he was scarcely prepared 
for the influx of thirty-eight. 

After, with some difficulty, sealing them in the drawing-room, 
which, fortunately, was a large double room, with folding-doors, 
he stood up in front of the mantel-piece and began to speak. 

in repose his face was habitually grave, his somewhat spare 
cheeks and determined mouth giving him almost a stern look; but 
when he smiled— and he smiled as he addressed Che ladies— his 
whole face lit up. 

As he looked round the room he thought of the church- warden’s 
words, and wondered how many of the assemblage had come to 
see him personally; and then he dismissed the thought as unwor- 
thy, and resolved to look on them in the light of helpers, solely and 
simply. 

Most of Ihe principal families were represented by some member 
or other, young ladies preponderating. Miss Hatton was there, 
looking very handsome, Ethel very pretty. 

The vicar gave a searching glance into every one’s face, and, se- 
lecting twelve ladies, asked them to become district visitors. 

“That is to say,” he continued, ‘‘if it will not interfere with 
home duties; for I am Bure you will agree with me that they have 
the first claim.” 

Two ladies begged to withdraw their names in consequence. 

Miss Hatton and her sister volunteered in their stead. 

“ But what are we to do?” asked the former, briskly; “are we 
to walk unauthorized into their houses, and look in their cup- 
boards, and tell them their rooms are not clean, and force a tract 
into theii hands?” 

“ I hope not,” returned the vicar, smiling; “ can you not call on 
them as you would on any lady of your acquaintance? Make 
friends with them, that is all I ask to begin with, and by degrees 
induce them to help themselves. By visiting them regularly you 
can soon do this, and will then be enabled to point out to me any 


THE BACHELOR YIGAR OF NEWFORTH. 


29 


special case of distress cr poverty or sickness or spiritual want, 
which 1 shall cnly be too glad to look into.” 

And then other schemes, relating to clubs for clothing, etc., were 
discussed, until every one in the room had her work cut out for 
her. 

“ I trust 1 may not frighten you by my demands,” he said; 
“ and 1 am quite aware you will all say that with me it is a case of 
* new broom.’ Granted; but we are told a now broom sweeps clean 
— at all events for a time; and there is one subject which 1 must 
approach cautiously, as it is a very delicate one— 1 mean the sub- 
ject of your dress.” 

44 You don’t want us to wear poke bonnets, I hope, and dress like 
sisters?” said Miss Hatton. 

44 On the contrary; far be it from me to suggest that you are not 
always dressed with the same elegance with which 1 see you now. 
1 was only going to advise— though 1 know 1 am taking a great 
liberty, for which i trust you will pardon me— that in visiting the 
poor, you should not wear your oldest clothes, where the houses 
are clean. Tha very poor, especially, admire good dress in their 
lady visitors, and take it as a compliment. I will airange to go 
round with each of you on your visit and introduce you.” 

44 In that case,” whispered Miss Hatton, 44 he may be quite sure 
we shall wear our best clothes!” 


CHAPTER V. 

ETHEL’S TROUBLES. 

It was a pouiing wet day, and in addition, there was a south-west 
gale blowing. It had been raining in torrents all night, and the 
state of the roads was beyond description. 

Ethel Hatton stood in the hall of her father’s house, habited in 
an ulster and felt hat. 

44 What’s the front door cpen about?” called Miss Hatton from 
the dining-room; 44 it makes such a fearful draught in here.” 

44 I am going out,” returned Ethel, opening her umbrella. 

Miss Hatton went into the hall. Lieutenant Campbell, who was 
staying in the house, followed her. 

44 You can’t be such a fool as to be going to your district to- 
day, Ethel,” said her sister, who was given to plainness of speech. 

44 It is the day.” 


30 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ Does the day admit of no alteration, like the laws of the Medes 
and Persians?” asked Mr. Campbell, a tall, big young man, with 
fair hair and a long flaxen beard and mustache. 

“ VVhen 1 undertake a duty, 1 like to fulfill it,” Ethel replied, 
distantly, Mr. Campbell being nc favorite of hers. 

“ The mud will be up to your ankles in Rosemary Lane; let me 
see what boots you have on,” said Miss Hatton. 

Ethel held out a very pretty French-clad foot. 

“ It’s ridiculous to go out like that,” continued her sister; “ you 
will be wet through before you are out of the garden gates.” 

Mrs. Hatton came down-stairs at this moment. 

“ What are you all doing in the hall?” she asked. ” With this 
wind blowing, it makes the house very cold to have the door open.” 

“ Ethel insists on going to visit her district, mother,” said Miss 
Hatton; '* and just look at the boots she has on.” 

“ You certainly can not go like that, my dear. But if you will 
wear my goloshes, I do not know that you will take any harm.” 

.Now, of all things, Etnel abhorred goloshes. 

“ They are a great deal too large for me; I could not keep them 
on,” she replied. 

” Then you must stay at home, my dear; I can not let you run 
the risk of being laid up.” 

Ethel considered a moment, and remembered a practical sermon 
of the vicar’s, in which he had said that duties should not be set 
on one side because they involved small sacrifices. Surely this 
was a case in point. 

But to wear the odious goloshes was nothing less than a great 
sacrifice; well, perhaps the more creditable. 

‘‘ 1 will wear them,” she said, ruefully. 

‘‘ 1 will put them on for you,” said Mr. Campbell, muttering to 
himself as he did so, ** it will speed the parting guest.” 

There is nothing more conducive to misgiving than having our 
own way. A little more opposition, and Ethel would have departed 
with the feelings of a martyr; as it was, her heart began to fail her. 

” Though 1 advised your sister not to go, 1 must say I am very 
glad to have a chat all to ourselves,” said Mr. Campbell, returning 
to the dining-room with Miss Hatton. ** Is she sweet on your vicar 
that she is so bent on carrying out her good works?” 

‘‘ That isn’t fair,” replied Miss Hatton, warmly. “ Ethel always 
did the most absurd things if she thought she ought; she is a most 
conscientious little creature.” 

** You did not answer my question, all the same.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP HE W FORTH. 31 

“ Come to that,” returned the girl, calmly, ** we are all in love 
with him.” 

“ 1 say!” ejaculated Mr. Campbell, crossly. 

Miss Hatton laughed. “ Oh, don’t be alarmed; there is safely 
in numbers, you know ! Besides, the men are just as bad. Some- 
how, the vicar has such a knack of getting round people. How, 
there is Mr. Leslie; he declared first of all that nothing would in- 
duce him to exert himself, yet here he is working like a slave about 
this cricket club, and canvassing right and left to get people to join, 
and obtaining subscriptions. Hot only that, but he, at the vicar’s 
suggestion, is doing his utmost to get up a guild for the amuse- 
ment of the young men during the wintei months.” 

“ How does this ninth wonder-of-the-world manage it?” 

” I don’t know. Somehow he does manage it. He sa 3 's to peo- 
ple, ‘ 1 am sure you will do this and that/ and they do it.” 

“ 1 have heard quite enough about him, I assure you. I object 
to hashed vicar, and would rather not have a rechauffe of all his 
wonderful doings, I wonder how Miss Ethel is getting on.” 

Miss Ethel was getting on very badly. “ Was there ever such 
rain?” she thought. It came down in pelting torrents; in five 
minutes’ time the corners of her umbrella were streaming. She 
shut tliis up in despair. 

To save her steps she turned down a narrow lane, a short-cut to 
her district, her feet slipping at every step. The large goloshes stuck 
in the mud, which now penetrated between them and her boots. 
Her hair, blown about, straggled on her forehead; her hat was 
pushed on one side. She struggled on,, ashamed to turmback. 

But who was this coming down the road which intersected the 
lane she was in? Horror of horrors! It was the vicar!. 

She felt she could not see him in her piesent plight s so walked on 
as fast as possible. Alas, her speed was fatal to hei! with a sud- 
den spring one of the hateful goloshes jumped off her foot, and 
lodged in a ditch some inches deep in mud. In stooping to pick it 
up a further misfoitune befell her: her purse dropped from her 
pocket and lay in the middle of the road. 

She stood and looked at it, helplessly holding the golosh in one 
hand, at arm’s-length. Her gloves were ruined; her feet — one 
glance at them appalled her. Were these two mud-enveloped 
lumps her nice little feet, of which she had been so proud? She 
looked again, and suddenly hurst out laughing. 

A manly voice spoke at her elbow. ‘‘ Pray, allow me to assist 
you. This is the second time 1 find you in difficulties.” 


32 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


There was the vicar buttoned up to the chin, and wearing gaiters. 
There was a smile in his eyes as he spoke, otherwise he gave no 
sign of appreciating the humor of the situation. 

He picked up the purse, and with his clean white handkerchief 
wiped it dry. 

“ You will luin your handkerchief,” said Ethel, nervously. He 
took the golosh from her hand, and, shaking the mud from it, was 
proceeding to appty his handkerchief to that also. 

“ 1 can't let you do that, Mr. Manley. Please give it to me, and 
—and — I do wish you would go on.” A gust cf wind came as she 
spoke, and nearly blew her down, while the sea broke on the shore 
in great billows. 

“ Are you aware that when you get round the corner you will 
feel the wind with double force? 1 doubt if you will be able to 
stand.” 

“Is it as bad as that?’' 

“ It is quite as bad; and although you wish me to go, I really 
feel it to be my duty to see you home.” 

Ethel crimsoned. It only her hat would keep straight, and her 
hair stay in its place, she thought it would not seem quite so bad. 

The vicar polished the india-rubber shoe, and threw his hand- 
kerchief into the lane afterward. (In parenthesis we may observe 
it was picked up and restored to him clean.) 

“ Oh, dear!” exclaimed Ethel, “you have lost your handker- 
chief all through me.” 

“It is not often that 1 indulge in a piece of extravagance. Do 
you consider it very wicked on my part? 1 could not well put it 
into my pocket.” 

“You are very kind, thank )’6u very much. Please give me 
back my goloshes.” 

“ I have only one; 1 will put it on for you.” 

“ Oh, don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Manley,” said Ethel, nervous- 
ly; “ 1 can put it on myself, and I don't want you to see me 
home.” 

“ 1 doubt if you will get home at all, unless 1 do; the gale is in- 
creasing every minute. Now, put out your foot.” 

She did so; it appeared such an enormous size, caked as it was 
with mud, that the sight overcame her gravity. The vicar laughed 
also. 

“ 1 fear the goloshes are rather large for you. 1 must suggest, it 
you will allow me, that you should take the other off and walk 


THE bachelor vicar or hew forth. 33 

home without any, seeing that you can scarcely be in worse con- 
dition as to wet and inud than you are already/’ 

“ 1 couldn’t carry them home; the one I have on must weigh 
pounds, from the mud on it.” 

“ I take the hint; 1 shall be pleased to cany them home for you.” 

“ It wasn’t a hint, Mr. Manley,” said Ethel, blushing furiously; 
“ 1 would greatly prefer carrying them myself to troubling you.” 

He smiled. 

” Now, wasn’t that speech a little unKind?” 

“ Why?” 

“ You know I shall not allow you to take them, and you wish 
to deprive me of any credit, when 1 carry them.” 

*' Are you sure 1 can not go on?” she ashed, meekly. 

‘‘lam quite sure. Let us turn our face toward your house.” 

The wind now was in their backs; it forced Ethel along at such 
a rate that she became breathless. 

‘‘ Stand still a moment,” said the vicar, ** and take my arm.” 

She did so, and in spite of her discomfiiure thought there might 
be worse situations than to be in the company of a delightful vicar, 
who was looking down at her wjth sc pleasant an expression in his 
bright eyes. That he would have done as much for any old wom- 
an of his congregation she was quite aware, but, would he have 
looked at her so kindly? She hoped not. 

“ What took you out on such a morning?” he asked. 

1 was going to visit my district.” 

“ Do you not think yDu would have been wiser to have remained 
at home?” 

“1 only went because you said 1 ought,” returned Ethel, feeling 
very crestfallen. 

1 said you ought?” repeated the astonished vicar. 

“ Yes; you said last Sunday that we ought not to neglect our 
duties because they made us uncomfortable.” 

‘‘lam very glad that you do endeavor to give a. practical result 
to my teaching; but in this instance you must forgive my remark- 
ing, my dear Miss Ethel, that your zeal should have been tem- 
pered with discretion.” 

She looked very grave. 

“ Are you very much offended with me?” he continued, with a 
smile. “ Rest assured tbi t 1 give you full credit for your good in- 
tentions; only 1 think that you would have been wiser to have 
gone out to morrow, instead of to-day.” 

“ Of course I am not offended, Mr. Manley, ” she replied, gen- 


34 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEW FORTH. 

tly; “ I see I was very foolish. 1 am only sorry that 1 should have 
put you to so much inconvenience.’' 

“ 1 have very often endured a far more disagreeable morning; it 
is all in my day’s work.” 

‘‘You are so good to every one.” 

“ 1 don’t know that. Look there, this is Mr. Rowen!” 

No tv Mr. Rowen was the new curate; a tall, thin, melancholy 
man, with large bon} r hands, and an expression of countenance 
which suggested to the ou-looker that the church’s treatment of Mr. 
Rowen had not been quite equal to what it ought to have been in 
the estimation of that individual, and that this fact had caused a 
settled gloom over his life. 

At this moment he was struggling with his umbrella, and the 
umbrella seemed getting decidedly the best of it, having turned in 
side out, and resolutely refusing to be restored to a decorous posi- 
tion. 

Mr. Manley laughed. 

“ You will never manage it, Rowen,” he said, *‘ so long as you 
stand with your back to the wind.” and taking the umbrella out of 
the curate’s hand, he grappled with it successfully, restoring it to 
the owner shut. “Umbrellas are a mistake on such a day,” he 
added. “Also” — in a lower tone, which only reached Ethel’s 
ears — “ also goloshes.” 

Mr. Rowen looked helplessly at his wet coat, and observed that, 
as the rain was coming in large splashes on to his face, he thought 
he had better go home. 

“ 1 think so too,” replied the vicar. 

“ Now, Miss Ethel, we are at your house at last. ” 

“ Won’t you come in?” 

He would have declined, but Admiral Hatton was at the door, 
and gave him a hearty invitation to enter and have lunch. The 
sight of the vicar with his daughter did not cause him the smallest 
surprise; it was his opinion that every young man would escort his 
girls home if he could get the chance. 

“ May X wash my hands?” asked Mr. Manley, holding his out, 
and showing the mud on them.. 

“ There isn't a veiy good lunch, father!” said Miss Hatton, in a 
low voice. 

“ You won’t mind that, will you?” returned the admiral, loud- 
ly. 

“ 1 am quite sure 1 shall not mind.” 

But although the luncheon was very plain, consisting of cold 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


35 


mutton, bread, cheese, butter, and biscuits, the table was prettily 
laid, and the whole effect very good; for the girls were careful al- 
ways to see to these points. The butter was made into fancy shapes 
and ornamented with parsley, the cheese grated, while the six vases 
of flowers on the table were most artistically arranged. 

Like most iretired naval officers, Admiral Hatton was not very 
well off; but house-rent was low and living moderate in Newforth, 
therefore he and his family managed to live in quiet comfort. 

Their house was a long, low, rambling building, standing in a 
large garden; it was somewhat out of repair, but looked very home- 
like, with the shady trees surrounding it, and bright flowers in the 
beds in front. At luncheon the admiral ordered in some rum and 
whisky, and seme hot water. 

“Now, Mr. Manley,” he said, heartily, “you have been veiy 
wet, you must take a glass of hot grog.” 

“ You must excuse me, sir,” returned the vicar, “ I never take 
spirits of any kind.” 

“Stuff and nonsense!” said the old man, with energy; “you 
have been wet through, and must want it.” 

“ I am not indeed,” replied the vicar, quietly; “ my overcoat 
and leggings thoroughly protected me.” 

The admiral began to argue the point, and in the midst of the 
discussion in came Mr. and Mrs. Leslie; for Mrs. Leslie was a 
dauntless young woman, who disregarded weather. 

Seeing that Admiral Hatton was becoming seriohJy discom- 
posed, the vicar thought fit to give a reason for his refusal. 

“ I am not a teetotaler,” he said, in answer to a direct question, 
“ but I never touch wine, beer, or spirits.” 

“ Do you disapprove of it?” 

“ Certainly not, in moderation; but I found 1 could not speak 
with any effect to men who drank unless they were aware that 1 
abstained myself. In this manner I have induced a large number 
of men who were ruining themselves to sign the pledge.” 

“1 knew it,” said Mr. Leslie, triumphantly; “a slave to the 
working-man!” 

Miss Hatton gave him a meaning glance. 

“ How abcut your lads?” she asked. “You needn’t look so in- 
nocent, Mr. Leslie; l hear you are as touchy as possible now con- 
cerning their behavior, and take quite a pride in the cricket club.” 

“Ah,” he replied, “those lads do behave well; they are the 
exception which prove the rule. 1 dare say I am a slave to the 
working-man also; i always said we all were,” 


36 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 

*' 1 must confess,’’ said the vicar, * l that it took me a long time 
before I could feel any real sympathy with the temperance move- 
ment. Hut the longer 1 live and go about among t lie poor— ay, 
and sometimes among the rich, too — the more strongly 1 feel the 
pressing need of exertion to try to stem the tide of drunkenness, 
and the fearful evils caused thereby.” % 

“ Awfully slow conversation!” said Mr. Campbell to Miss Hat- 
ton, in a low voice; “ these parsons are such prigs.” 

“Be quiet,” she replied, sharply; “Mr. Manley is certainly not 
one.” 

“ Look at his hair parted so evenly down the midde, not a hair 
awry,” rejoined Mr. Campbell, who seemed to look on the fact as a 
personal affront; but to this remark Miss Hatton paid no attention. 

“ There must be something very wrong about cold water,” said 
Mr. Leslie, “ judging by the effect it has on nearly every one — 
present company, ot course, excepted. A cold bath of a day 
makes a man despise every one who does not take one— I know 
this by my own feelings; and I am given to understand that teeto- 
talers think not only that every virtue under the sun may be 
summed up in the word teetotalism, but that every vice under the 
sun is represented in the person of those who are not teetotalers; 
but on this point I do not speak from experience.” 

“ And as there is no actual teetotaler present,” said the vicar, with 
a smile, “ suppose we leave it an open question,” and then certain 
church matters began to be discussed between himself and his col- 
leagues. 

“ To do as you propose will take a large sum of money,” said 
Mr. Leslie. 

“ W.e will raise it.” 

“ But how? If Mr. Smith wanted enough money to pay for a 
broken window, be could not get it without grumbling at us for a 
quarter of an horn at a time.” 

“1 do not propose to grumble; 1 do not think any one is in- 
fluenced in that manner. But may 1 ask what you call grum- 
bling?” 

“ If 1 take a five-pound note, and you say to me, ‘ You are a 
thief, you have committed a sin/ that is all right, you are doing 
your duty; but if I make an effoit to go to church on a wet night, 
and then have to listen tor no end of a time to complaints because 
the other people have stayed away, that 1 call grumbling; and, if 
clergymen only knew it, it affronts the congregation beyond oicas- 

vre/’ 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


37 


“And very properly/’ replied the vicar. “ But 1 must say 1 
never hear this grumbling of which you speak/’ 

Mr. Leslie laughed. 

“ Really, 1 think a clergyman oueht sometimes to look with the 
eyes of the congregation. You don’t grumble, and when you go 
to otuer churches, of course, the mere sight ot a brother clergy- 
man, whether in a black coat, or surplice, prevents the vicars from 
scolding their people.. But if you only knew how perpetually the 
congregations at other churches are lectured for what is as often 
as not the clergyman’s own fault, for his failing in his own duly, 
you would not wonder at what 1 say. A man who has a season 
ticket for the Crystal Palace, and spends his whole time between 
that and going to parties, can not expect his congregation to work 
among the London back streets; but that very man will take hi3 
people to task on that account, as if he himself were immaculate 
and were always doing good works.” 

“ I am sorry to hear it,” said the vicar. “ SiDce 1 have been 
among you I have had no cause to complain.” 

The party had adjourned to the drawing-room. Mr. Campbell 
went Id the window and looked out seaward; the waves, white- 
crested, were rolling in heavily. 

“ Even should the wind drop, there will be a good sea on to- 
morrow,” he remarked. “ 1 hear ’’—turning lo the vicar— “ that 
you are a good swimmer; will you swim round the further buoy 
with me to-morrow morning; and it you beat me 1 will give you 
a sovereign toward your offertory.” 

“ 1 never bet,” returned Mr. Manley, “ but 1 will swim with 
you at six to-morrow morning; 1 can not be later on account of 
the eight o’clock service.” 

“ Is there service every morning? That's something new, isn’t 
it?” 

“ Aes,” replied Miss Hatton, “ it is something new. Tbeie are a 
great many things new, and will be a great many more, 1 have no 
doubt.” 

“ And whc goes? only girls, I suppose.” 

“ We have a very fair number, though we hope for more.” 

Miss Hatton walked into the conservatory, followed by Mr. 
Campbell. 

“ Why did you ask him to race you?” she said. “ He is athletic, 
but I don’t know that he is so very strong, while you art; and I 
don’t suppose he can swim as well as you do.” 

“ If anything were wanting to decide me it would be your 


38 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWEORTH. 


speech,” replied the youtig man, with a disagreeable frown. “I 
should have thought you might have shown a little solicitude on 
my account.” 

She laughed. 

“ Now, don’t be cross. I’ll tell you what 1 will do. 1 will get 
all the girls I know to go to church to-morrow morning, and you 
can tell us all about your winning the race when service is over.” 

Mr. Campbell looked highly gratified. 

" That’s a good idea. He will come into church dead beat, and 
gasp through his reading.” 

“ For shame!” 

But on the morrow the vicar entered the church as the clock 
struck eight* looking fresh as usual, and took the entire service 
without any effort (for at present Mr. Rowen did not attend in the 
morning). 

He had gone round the further buoy, and beaten Mr. Campbell 
easily. 

“ Here is your sovereign,” said the latter, sulkily, as he stood 
in the porch; “and what are all those girls grinning about?” he 
added, savagely, watching a group of girls laughing and talking. 
“ It seems to me the service hasn’t done them much good, or they 
wouldn’t be giggling inside the very church doors.” 

“ 1 quite agree with you,” returned the vicar, gravely. But no 
argument would induce him to accept Mr. Campbell’s sovereign. 


CHAPTER \1. 

THE AMATEUR CONCERT. 

“1 WISH you would tell me, Gertrude,” said Ethel Hatton, 
“ what you intend to do about Mr. Campbell.” 

The girls Were dressing for dinner; Miss Hatton was seated in 
front of her glass, combing out her long dark hair. 

“ What have you done with my hairpins, Ethel?” was the only 
reply she vouchsafed. 

“ Here they are,” returned Ethel; “ and now, perhaps, you will 
answer my question.” 

“ What do you suppose 1 am ro do about him?” 

“ Well,” said Ethel, slowly, and looking out of the window as 
she spoke; “ it seems to me that it is scarcely fair to encourage a 
pign so much, who is deeply in love with yau s if you don’t caie 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWPORTH. 39 

about him. And I really don’t think you care for Mr. Campbell — 
and I’m sure 1 don’t.” 

“ As to that,” replied Miss Hatton, calmly, “ no one ever thought 
you did care for him, and it’s just as well you don’t.” 

“ Do you care for him, Gertrude?” asked her sister, earnestly. 

INow, there had been a time when Miss Hatton had thought she 
did; she was very much less sure of her feelings now. The ad- 
vent of Mr. Manley had aroused in a really noble nature a desire 
for better things than Mr. Campbell’s somewhat vapid society talk. 
But of the vicar she saw little in private, and she was not blind 
to the fact that he prtf erred her sister to herself. 

The earnest, intellectual talk in which he sometimes indulged 
filled her with keen delight; he was not only deeply read, but. 
thoroughly conversant with the literature of the day —poetry, art, 
science, architecture, etc. Unfortunately, it was so very seldom 
that he conferred the pleasure of his conversation on her— as in- 
deed, in a place where there were so many ladies, how could he? 
But, as she said, he lived other people’s lives'to so great an extent, 
entering into all their joys and sorrows, that he had no time to 
show them his inner life. 

“ 1 do not know why you are so anxious to ascertain my feel- 
ings, then,” she replied to her sister. 44 1 certainly do not thjak a 
little suspense will injure a man of Mr. Campbell’s stamp.” 

‘‘ Not if you intend to accept him eventually.” 

”1 do not see that 1 am bound to reveal my intentions,” said 
Miss Hatton, coiling her splendid hair on to the top of her head, 
bird’s-nest "fashion, and fastening in some chrysanthemums. 44 1 
would much rather be told it I look nice.” 

44 You look very nice; but as no one except Mr. Campbell is 
coming to dinner, you are taking great pains with yourself, if you 
don’t care for him.” 

“If 1 detested him, 1 should still wish to look nice, my dear; if 
you look charming you can’t do very wrong— in a man’s eyes.” 

44 He is coming up the road, ’’said Ethel, looking across the lawn. 

JMow Lieutenant Campbell belonged to one of the harbor ships 
of the neighboring town of Seafort. 

44 Let me see,” said Miss Hatton, going to the window and peer- 
ing through the branches of the trees. 44 Yes, there he is. He is 
ceitainly a fine-looking fellow, but what a marvelous thing it is 
that so many naval officers, no matter what they pay tor their 
clothes, never get them to fit like soldiers do. There is nearly al- 
ways a certain bagginess about their coats and trousers.” 


4*0 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ Because they go to naval tailors icr their plain clothes. But 1 
am sure Captain Worsley is always well dressed, except that his 
clothes have rather too sporting a cut.” 

“He does dress well,” returned Miss Hatton, “and. why? Be- 
cause, though he is in it, he hates the navy. Don’t you remember 
the night he came to see us before going to Africa, when he arrived 
at eleven c’dock at night; he might have been an hour earlier, but 
that instead of coming straight to us he went to Seafort, and 
changed his clothes, because he was ashamed of being seen in uni- 
form •/” 

” He is ashamed of the navy altogether,” said Ethel. “ I can’t 
think why he stays in it. He puts Mr. Henry Worsley on his 
card.” 

“ On that point he is a regular fool, my dear, Now, father 
thinks the highest rank in any other profession is not equal to that 
of an admiral. He ranks people thus:— Queen, Prince of Wales, 
Royal Dukes, ADMIRALS. It is a very harmless belief!” And 
indeed it was true that to his mind the world consisted of the army 
and navy, sprinklings of “ these civilians ” — meaning the rest of 
the English population— being thrown in just to fill up odd corners. 

“ We ought to go down stairs,” said Ethel. “ 1 can hear Mr. 
Campbell’s voice.” 

” It will increase his ardor to be kept waiting,” said her sister, 
composedly. “ Mother is in the drawing-room.” 

He always fidgets so, and is so disagreeable until you come in; 
he pulls his beard, and looks like a sulky bear.” 

‘‘Very probably; you used to say the same about Captain 
Worsley.” 

“ Oh, he was very much in love with you, Gertrude; if you had 
only let him, he would have proposed to you before he went 
away.” 

“ Let by-gones be by-gones; perhaps I will listen to him on his 
return from Africa, which, 1 believe, will be shortly. We will go 
down now.” 

Mr. Campbell was sitting in front of the fire, appearing, as Ethel 
had predicted, very sulky.- The sight of Miss Hatton, loosing very 
handsome in her black velveteen and red chrysanthemums, did 
much toward restoring him to good humor. 

“Sc we are tc go to this concert tc-night!” he exclaimed; ” aw- 
ful bore, isn’t it?” 

Now, an amateur concert was to take place that night under Mr. 
Leslie’s management. Tile idea had been suggested by the vicar, 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


41 


ostensibly to raise funds toward putting in a large and beautiful 
window in the east end of the church; but in reality it was one of 
many successful efforts made^by him for drawing his people to- 
gether, and encouraging friendly intercourse. 

“1 think we had much better stay at home!” continued Mr. 
Campbell. “ Come, I’ll give five shillings toward the fund, if we 
all sit over the fire instead.” 

44 We are going to do nothing of the kind,” replied Miss Hatton; 
'* but you can give five shillings, and sit over the fire yourself, if 
you like.” 

44 It is raining.” 

44 There is a little rain,” said Ethel, looking out of the window; 
44 but we are not going to let that keep us away.” 

44 If it rained and hailed and snowed and raged, and the vicar 
asked us to go miles anywhere, we should go,” said Miss Hatton. 

44 You might,” retorted Mr. Campbell. 

44 We all should; the congregation assemble in a body now when 
they are told to do so. Shall 1 borrow a quotation and tell you 
why?” 

44 If ycu like,” said Mr. Campbell, impatiently. 

44 Because he has 4 the deep sincerity of purpose, the sight of 
which has so strong an influence in inducing others to follow our'" 
admonitions.’ He lives as he preaches.” 

‘‘Give ycui authority!” returned Mr. Campbell, with a short 
laugh; 44 1 believe you invented that yourself to impose on me.” 

44 1 am sure 1 did not.” 

4 ’ 1 am afraid you can not go to-night, my dears,” interposed 
Mrs. Hatton; 44 it is raining fast.” 

44 We can wear goloshes, or we can take shelter at the vicarage,” 
remarked Mr. Campbell, to whom Ethel’s first adventure had been 
told in strict confidence by her sister. 

44 The girls are net made of sugar and salt, my dear; they won’t 
melt,” said Admiral Hatton. 44 1 am going myself.” 

“1 told you so,” returned Miss Hatton, triumphantly; “you 
will see every one will go, rain or no rain. Father doesn’t go out 
once a year of an evening, except to church.” 

*' Is it a dress affair?” 

“ Oh, no; it is only a shilling concert; you can keep cn your 
overcoat, for no one dresses. I hope it will be a success.” 

“ 1 met your rara am this morning in Seafort!” 

“ What did he say?” 

’* He said,” remarked Mr, Campbell, with an expression of pleas- 


12 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

ure, “ that Mr. Leslie had beaten him hollow at single wicket; and 
he also observed that, except to teaoh his choir boys to swim as a 
reward, he was getting rather out ot practice in swimming, and 
that very likely 1 had been out of practice when 1 swam with him, 
which was true enough.” (For it had come to Mr. Manley's 
knowledge that Mi. Campbell was seriously offended at being 
beaten, and the vicar regretted that the match had ever come oft, 
seeing how much ill-feeling it had given rise to on the lieutenant’s 
pait.) “ 1 dare say,” continued Mr. Campbell, “ that he said it 
because he wanted me to come to his concert to-night.” 

Ethel’s indignant reply was pi evented by the entrance ot Mr. and 
Mrs. Leslie, and Mrs. Allen and her son and daughter. 

“ 1 believe the whole thing will be a failure,” said Mr. Leslie; 
** 1 have never had anything to do with amateur concerts before. 
The vicar manages the next. I’m thankful to say; but 1 hope he 
will be present to-night to preside.” 

“ Why should he not?” asked Mrs. Hatton. 

“ Isaw him hurrying toward the station at a great rate; it struck 
me whether he might not be going away somewhere.” 

“ 1 dare say it was only that some poor person had sent for him. 
I wonder, it 1 were in trouble, unconnected with illness or - mis- 
fortune— mental trouble, let us say— how long I might want him 
before I could get him, and yet he would go instantly to a poor 
person. Clergymen always give poor people the preference.” 

“ My stock sentiment!” said Mr. Leslie; “ the supremacy of the 
working-man!” 

“ My opinion,” said Mr. Campbell, “is that they vastly prefer 
the rich. Don’t curates generally marry girls with money?” 

“ They could not well marry without,” returned Mrs. Leslie; 
“ but it is very often because the rich people invite them the most, 
and so they see the rich girls most frequently. But 1 agree with 
you to a certain extent, for 1 think that people like ourselves come 
worst off. As we don’t happen to favor personal confession in 
this neighborhood, 1 should have to face an ordeal before 1 could 
get the vicar to speak to me seriously.” 

“You could ask to see him in the vestry,” said Mrs. Allen. 

Mrs. Leslie laughed. 

“ Well, 1 might; but 1 will tell you how it would be. I should 
first send a message by the verger, who always wants to know every 
one’s business, and then, when 1 got into the vestry, both clergy- 
men would look at me inquiringly. 1 should stammer forth that 1 
w r anted to speak to the \icar alone, and the curate would with- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTH. 


43 


draw. Then, on ascertaining that no such terrible affliction as the 
loss of my mother-in-law had befallen me (1 mention this espec- 
ially, because it is a loss that would appeal to every man’s sympa- 
thies!) the vicar, with the best intentions and quite against his will, 
would wonder what snare was being set for him, and whether the 
conversation would be quite correct. By this time all my courage 
would have oozed away, although I might be in the very depths of 
mental trouble!” 

“ You can scarcely wonder at clergymen being cautious,” said 
Mr. Leslie; “ think of all the young ladies who would want sym- 
pathy !” 

“ I suppose even young ladies have souls!” rejoined Miss 
Hatton, sharply. 

“ Ah! but 1 will tell you what actually happened to Mr. Manley 
in his last parish,” said Mr. Leslie; “ and mind you, this is a literal 
fact, ior which I can vouch, as I heard it from his former curate. 
A maiden lady, some forty years of age, had been in the habit of 
attending the services. He was in the vestry qpe day, when, to his 
horror and amazement, she entered, and throwing herself at his 
feet, excjaimed, 4 O Mr. Manley, 1 love you so!' 4 Get up this mo- 
ment,’ he replied, 4 and leave the church. How dare you come in 
here?’ The curate, unknown to her, was in the vestry at the time, 
and the story r went all over the place.” 

44 Disgusting /” said the girls, in chorus. 

“ Yes,” rejoined Mr. Leslie, 44 but that was only one instance of 
which we happened to know. A good deal must go on to annoy 
a clergyman that he never speaks of.” 

This was certainly true as regarded Mr. Manley. He had re- 
ceived letters without end, he had been persecuted with attentions, 
he had been worried beyond belief by the very popularity in which 
he was held; in short, he had been exposed to all those tempta- 
tions which no one but a clergyman, or those intimately acquainted 
with clergymen, can form any idea of. 

44 It is incomprehensible to me why he should be so much run 
after,” said Mrs. Allen; 44 his preaching is not remarkable, and 
he is certainly melancholy.” 

“ I do not agree With you.” replied Mrs. Leslie, warmly; “ he is 
one of the very few clergymen one believes in, which makes him 
a most exceptional preacher; and to me that quietness of manner is 
a great charm. 1 feel in another world while I listen.” 

44 1 suppose he is liked,” said Mr. Leslie, 44 for I am now at my 


44 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE KEWEORTH.. 


wits’ end to seat the people; if the church goes on filling at this 
rate, we must put chairs down the aisles, for every sitting is taken.” 

“But what has he?” asked Mrs. Allen; “ some five hundred a 
year, I suppose. What kind of style could a girl keep up on that?” 

“ Many of our young ladies are glad to marry on three hundred 
a year,” replied Mrs. Leslie. 

“ You astonish me,” said Mrs. Allen, raising her eyebrows; ” if 
my daughter were to contemplate such a thing, 1 should take her 
abroad until she had forgotten all about her lcve affairs. Is Mr. 
Manley of good family?” 

” I never asked,” returned Mr. Leslie, who was quite aware 
that the vicar was well descended. ” 1 am to inter, then, that 
when he preposes tor Miss Allen, you will reject him for her with 
scorn! 1 really think I ought to warn him. But perhaps some 
other young lady might be found to accept him. As for tlie money 
that comes in when he asks for it, it is like the widow’s cruse of 
oil— the more we spend, the more we get. 1 think 1 will ask the 
congregation to find ,me a carriage and pair of horses!” 

‘‘Don’t you wish you may get it!” said Mr. Campbell. “For 
Heaven’s sake, let us talk of something besides this everlasting 
vicar. Even the curate would be bettei for a change; he is also an 
unmarried parsou.” 

“Yes,” replied Miss Hatton, “only that we haven’t a notion 
what he means in his sermons, although he has been accustomed to 
preach for twelve years past; and it is exactly the same to every 
one, whether he is in a room or out of it.” 

The rain had ceased to fall when the party set out for the con- 
cert, and Admiral Hatton predicted a fine ntoht. 

The rcom was already half full when they took their seals. Mr. 
Leslie had hurried on, and was busily engaged in conducting peo- 
ple to their places. In ten minutes’ time every chair was occupied. 

The room was very ugly, but its hire was cheap, and Mr. Leslie 
had feared that the audience would not be sufficient to fill the large 
concert-room in the Town Hall. 

Anxious glances were given toward the door at eight o'clock, 
but no vicar appeared. Mr. Rowen was present, though no per- 
suasions would induce him to advance beyond the door -mat. Al- 
though Mr. Leslie was evidently doing his utmost, the arrange- 
ments were decidedly primitive. 

In full view of the expectant audience, a toilet looking-glass 
was brought through the concert-hall, and deposited in the little 
room behind the platform Some minutes later a grocer’s boy ap- 


^HE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEWFORTH. 


45 


peared, bearing a basket of bottled ale and stout, which he took iu 
triumph to the retreat before mentioned; and oh, worse than all, 
behind him came a pet -boy, carrying a large can, which could not 
be mistaken for other than malt liquor! 

“It is lemonade. Miss Hatton,” said Mr. Leslie, mendaciously, 
in passing. “ But why in the world have they brought everything 
so late?” he mentally ejaculated. 

“ And this is your teetotal vicar!” said Mr. Campbell. 

“ I cau’t imagine why they want so much to drink,” lcplied 
Miss Hatton. “ At the Choral Society ” (for a Choral Society was 
now an accomplished fact) “ we sing at the top of our voices for 
two hours continuously, without any refreshment whatever.”, 

A woman carrying teacups and saucers now went up the room. 

“ More to drink!” exclaimed Mr. Campbell. “ My gracious!” 

“ As none of the performers are to sing more than two songs 
each, I should not have thought so much refreshment necessary,” 
remarked Ethel. 

“ My husband is always afraid of not providing enough,” replied 
Mrs. Leslie; “ it won't come out of the concert funds— he pays for 
it himself.” And in truth he was a most generously disposed man. 

The audience now began to wax impatient. 

Af a quarter past eight Mr. Leslie went ou to the platform, and 
announced that the vicar had been suddenly summoned to London 
on pressing and unexpected business, and was very sorry he could 
not be present. 

A feeling as of a wet blanket at once overspread the assembly. 

“I really think he might, have been here,” said Mrs. Allen. 
“ Clergymen have not much to do; and I am sure he need not have 
gone to Londcn. 1 dare say he is there to enjoy himself.” 

“lam sure he is nol,” said Miss Hatton, indignantly. 

“Clergymen little to do!” echoed Mrs. Leslie, in amazement. 
“1 know of no men who have so much to do. In addition to 
their physical and mental work, which is very arduous, they 
have— ” but here she paused, knowing she could not speak of the 
weight of spiritual care an earnest clergyman always bears on his 
mind to such a woman as Mrs. Allen. 

“ You will find yourself in the wrong box, mother, if you speak 
against the vicar,” said young Mr. Allen, a liappy-looking, stout 
young man, and a great admirer of Miss Ethel Hatton’s. 

To Ethel, as to all the company, the vicar’s absence had been 
most unexpected ; she knew the evening would be a blank to her, 
but she went on laughing and talking. 


46 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEWFORTH. 


A 3 r oung lady came forward and played a piece on t lie piano. It 
was a very mild performance, and the audience listened in melan- 
choly lesignation. 

Then Mr. Leslie, who showed a gallant front in spite of all diffi- 
culties, announced that he was extremely soiry to say that two of 
their principal performers had not come at all, and that a third had 
so bad a cold, owing to the damp evening, as to be quite inaudi- 
ble. Something between applause and groaning followed this dec- 
laration, on the part of the audience. He hoped, however, con- 
tinued Mr. Leslie, that the deficiency would be satisfactorily sup- 
plied by three gentlemen who had kindly volunteered to sing and 
recite at a moment’s notice. A feeble rapping of umbrellas took 
place, ceasing on the appearance of a lady and gentleman on the 
platform, who informed the audience in different keys, and shock- 
ingly out of tune, that they were both in search of a kindred spirit 
with whom to dwell. 

“ It is perfectly awful,” said Miss Hatton. “ Whatever you do 
don’t applaud, Mr. Campbell, or we shall have it all over again.” 

” It’s jolly,” returned that young man, who was a very fair music- 
ian. “ L had no idea I shculd be entertained so much; they must 
have finished on F sharp instead of G natural.” 

A reaction had seized on the audience, who now felt an in- 
sane desire to laugh on the first opportunity that presented itself, 
They listened with struggling gravity to a young man, one of the 
volunteers, who sung to them of his ” love,” and his “ dar-r-ing ” 
frame; but when a stout, lugubrious gentleman replaced him, and 
begun in most pathetic tones to recite a piece treating of the woes 
of human nature -and intended tc be eminently pathetic— the sup- 
pressed merriment burst forth; during the entire recitation there 
was one continuous roar. Mr. Campbell laughed until the tears 
rolled down Iris face. “ It’s glorious,” he exclaimed. “ Look at 
the cld fellotv’s long face now.” 

The performer was highly ofiended, and altogether declined to 
take any part in the proceedings that were to follow. “ You must 
cut out my piece,” he said, grimly, to Mr. Leslie, whc was begin- 
ning to think that the stars in their course were fighting against 
him. At his instance the audience clamorously demanded an en- 
core, which, alihougli not acceded to by the unfortunate reciter did 
much to pacify him. 

“ An assembly exclusively composed of ladies and gentlemen 
ought to behave better,’' lemarked Mrs. Allen. 

" Why, that’s the very reason we needn’t behave ourselves,” re- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


47 


turned Miss Hatton; “ we all teel like a family party now: 1 never 
knew such a friendly congregation.” 

The aspect ct affairs was becoming serious to Mr. Leslie. Only 
one halt of the allotted lime was over, and only two more per- 
formers were to sing. He felt half inclined to tell the people to set 
aside the forms and finish the evening with a dance, hut was not 
sure whether the vicar would approve of this arrangement, so he 
manfully threw himself into the breach, and said that he would 
recite a comic piece. It proved a very comic business; the exigen- 
cies of the piece demanded a certain amount of acting, to which 
Mr. Leslie did full justice. The audience, having been previously 
wound up, laughed until they could laugh no longer. Admiral Hat- 
ton was delighted; he said he did not, know when he had enjoyed 
himself so much. 

“ 1 had no conception that the entertainment would be so thor- 
oughly frivolous,” said Mrs. Allen; “ and a church entertainment, 
too! 1 am quite disgusted.” 

“ The vicar would have laughed as heartily as any one, had he 
been here,” replied Mrs. Leslie. 

“ Perhaps; that does not raise the character of the proceedings.” 

“ Come, mother,” remonstrated her son, “ it really wasn’t so bad 
as all that. 1 think we have had a very jolly evening, and we have 
the satisfaction of knowing that we shall hand over a good sum as 
the proceeds to the vicar ” (for young Mr. Allen was very active in 
parish affairs); 

“It is simply church dissipation,” returned Mrs. Allen. 

“ Anyhow,” said Miss Hatton, " we shall go home without feel- 6ft 
ing that we have been doing something wrong, which is more than 
can be said for many other lorms of enjoyment. 1 quite agree with 
Mr. Allen that it has been a very jolly evening.” 

“ First-rate,” said Mr. Campbell. 


CHAPTER VJLI. 

A FRIENDLY VISIT. 

A certain gravity had been perceptible about the vicar ever 
since his sudden journey to London. He was equally indefatigable 
in his work, equally charming in society; but to Ethel Hatton, 
who had begun to study and understand his moods, if was evident 
that some cloud was over him. 

Now subtile comprehension is one of the mysteries of love, and 
many and many of the delicate intricacies of thought communi- 
cated themselves from his mind’ to her, entirely unknown to the 


48 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


world at laige. There was no special talent about this girl, but 
there was a deep wealth of affection; and the vicar always felt, be- 
tween her and himself, a close spiritual affinity. He scarcely ever 
saw her alone, but he knew, as well as if he. had been told so in 
language, that there was a strange sympathy between them. As 
yet he had not told himself that he loved her; but that he liked her 
better than any one else, and believed in her and respected her, he 
had told himself often. Whenever any new scheme arose in his 
mind, his first thought was that he would tell her of it. It was not 
that he thought she could assist him, or influence him— he knew well 
that her mind took its tone from his— but that he liked to tell her 
of it. 

Calling one day at Admiral Hatton’s, and finding no one in the 
drawing-room, he idly took up a volume of Tennyson’s earlier 
works, which lay on the table. There were pencil-marks on the 
page at which it opened, and a scent of lemon plant hung about the 
book. The poem was “ Fatima.” He read some of it aloud with 
a great deal of unconscious sarcasm in his voice: 

“ O love, love, love! oh withering might! 

0 sun that from thy noon-day height 
• . Shudderest when I strain my sight, 

Throbbing thro’ all thy heat and light; 

Lo, falling from my constant mind, 

Lo, parched and withered, deaf and blind, 

1 whirl like leaves in roaring wind. 

******. 

I will grow round him in his place. 

Grow, live, die looking on his face — 

Die, dying clasp’d in his embrace.” 

"It is tolerably strong language,” said the vicar, turning over 
the leaves. Morepencil-maiks attracted his attention, and this time, 
he laughed. 

The poem was “ Eleanore:” 

“ Soon from thy rose-red lips my name 
Floweth; and then, as in a swoon, . 

With dinning sound my ears are rife. 

My tremulous tongue faltereth: 

1 lose my color, I lose my breath, 

I drink the cup of a costly death, 

Brimm’d with delirious draughts of warmest life, 

I die with my delight, before 
I hear what I would hear from thee; 

Yet tell my name again to me, 

I ivQuld, be dying evermore, 

$0 dying ever, Eleanore,” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NETVFORTH. 49 

The vicar closed the book. 

“ And we grow out of all this,” he said, musingly; " and are we 
better or worse? better for losing our dreams? sadder for seeing 
things more as they are? yet, even now, through a glass darkly, 
how darkly yet.” 

Miss Hatton came in. 

”1 am so sorry we have kept you waiting, Mr. Manley,” she 
said, brightly; “ the others will be in soon, and I have only just 
come in from a walk; the servants did not know I was out.” 

She removed tier hat and jacket as she spoke, and rang for tea. 
Her rich color glowed in the firelight; her eyes sparkled: she was 
unfeignedly glad to have a tete-d-Ute with the vicar. She gave him 
a cup cf tea, and sat down opposite to him. 

“ If 1 were to accept all the tea oifered me, 1 should never have 
tea at home,” he said, smiling; “ but I will not refuse this, although 
1 have' just been taking tea with Mrs. Stevens, at Fisherman’s 
Cove.” 

“ You take tea with 1 a widow! Oh, Mr. Manley, how very im- 
proper!” 

Now, Mrs. Stevens was a hard-featured, hoirely-looking woman, 
of some fifty years of age. 

“ I often have tea at tbe Cove,” said the vicar; “ the people like 
it. 1 had a very good tea to-night, although the china was some- 
what thick. Bread and butter, shrimps and watercress.” 

“ You shouldn’t have eaten shrimps, Mr. Manley,” returned 
Miss Hatton, laughing. “ No one can eat shrimps and look digni- 
fied.” 

“ 1 do not know that 1 am anxious always to look dignified, but 
1 assure you that shrimps, dissected on scientific principles, may be 
eaten without any loss of self-respect, always provided that your 
may wash ycur hands afterward.” 

He extended his hands to the blaze; in spite of his constant out- 
door work, they were very white. 

“ Every man to his taste,” said Miss Hatton. 

Talking of taste, whose mental pabulum is this?” he asked, 
pointing to the volume of Tennyson. 

“ That is Ethel’s; she is a very romantic little thing.” 

“ Indeed!” and the vicar found himself wondering whether, 
under any circumstances whatever, she would apply the high flown 
poetry to him; he rather hoped she would not. 

“ Are pot you romantic, Miss Hatton?” he asked, with a smile. 

' % 


50 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ 1 am not, indeed. I like tangible comfort, instead of imagin- 
ary bliss. .Now, 1 call this comfort. ” 

“ Do you refer to the tea, the fire, or the society?” 

“ The tea and the fire would scarcely be appreciated without the 
society.” 

The vicar was wary, but a glance at the girl’s honest, frank face 
convinced him that he need not be on his guard. He began to talk 
to her on church matters, more especially about his cherished 
scheme— the chancel window, which had now been commenced. 

Both the church-wardens had expressed themselves amazed at 
the manner in which the money was being raised, apparently with- 
out effort. 

‘‘ 1 hope the window will be finished soon after Christmas,” said 
Mr. Manley; “and, what is more, paid for. L think it will be a 
very beautiful work of art.” 

“ 1 hope it will not be so beautiful as to be beyond our compre- 
hensions. Something quite too-awfully too-too.” 

*' it will not be beyond our comprehensions,” replied the vicar, 
gravely. 

*‘ 1 beg your pardon, Mr. Manley; 1 ought not to have said it,” 
said the girl, frankly. 1 did not mean to be irreverent, it was 
only a crihute I was paying to your aesthetic tastes.” 

He smiled. ‘‘ 1 can not but accept an apology so readily and 
spontaneously offered.” 

*' The 4 Parish Magazine ’ is a great success,” said Miss Hatton, 
anxious to change the subject. 

“ 1 think it is; it barely pays its expenses, but that is a secondary 
consideration.” 

An expression of great amusement passed over her face; she 
began to laugh. 

“ What do you find to amuse you so much?” 

“MI tell you, 1 shall shock you again; 1 was thinking of what 
you said in the ‘Magazine.’ ” 

” What did 1 say?” 

“ You won’t be angry?” 

” I will not.” 

“ If was your account of Mr. Iiowen’s sermon— a sermon 1 heard 
with my own ears.” 

“ What can you find to laugh at in Mr. Rowen’s sermon?” asked 
the vicar, with some disapproval in his voice. 

‘‘1 am not laughing at his scrmcn. His sermon was— well, 1 


THE bachelor vicar or heweorth. 51 

don’t know what it was; but to read your precis of it in the * Parish 
Magazine,’ one would have imagined it was beautiful.” 

“ I still fail to see any cause for merriment. ” 

“There isn’t any real cause,” replied Miss Hatton, somewhat 
disconcerted; “ it only reminded me of a passage in one of Black’s 
books— that is all.” 

“ What was that?” 

“ Where some gentleman came in, and was understood to make 
inquiries after another gentleman's health, Out what he said was, 
‘ Haw-yaw?’ That is like the difference between Mr. Rowen’s 
sermon and your account of it.” 

“ I can not submit to be criticised thus,” said the vicar, cheer- 
fully, “ and 1 won’t have a word said against Mr. Rowen; he is a 
genuinely good man, even if he is not a particularly good preacher.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ECONOMY. 

Christmas had come and gone. It had been a bright, merry, 
old-fashioned Christmas; the snow lying on the ground, but the 
sun brilliant. 

Little had been done in the way of decoration at the parish 
churcn, it was so large; but that little had been in accordance with 
nature, the vicar disliking everything artificial. So the young men 
and the young ladies had hung up boughs of holly and evergreens 
and mistletoe, and placed growing flowers in pots round the pulpit, 
communion-table, and font, and that was all. 

But the work had been done heartily and cheerfully; the vicar 
had assisted personally, with a kind smile on his face; and even 
the tall, thin, and melancholy curate had been so far enlivened as 
to make a joke about the number of ladies, and the small amount 
of work there was to do. 

But there had been plenty of work outside the church. There 
had been school prizes given, and warm clothing and food for the 
poor, and parish teas, and various entertainments of dissolving 
views and magic lanterns. 

It was no part of Mr. Manley’s scheme to pauperize the parish, 
and encourage the able-bodied poor to accept relief when they 
were in a position to work; also, he was of opinion that even their 
amusements should be, as a rule, self-supporting. But at Christ- 


5% 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NE W FORTH . 


mas-time he held that this rule should be set on one side, and that 
all should endeavor to give with both hands liberally. 

But another matter was now sorety troubling him; this was that 
he was now personally quite unable to give to the charities with 
the generosity which had characterized all his previous dealings. 
He felt this keenly. 

He had taken more than one journey to London, on each occa- 
sion returning with a cloud on his face, with a line of care on his 
brow. His voice had taken a deep, pathetic ring, especially in 
church, or when speaking on thoughtful subjects. 

It was after one of those journeys 10 town that he sent for his 
cook, Mrs. Jonson, and informed her that, having a large payment 
to make— a most imperative payment — he found himself most 
reluctantly compelled to reduce his cwn and his household ex- 
penditure in every possible manner, and should therefore be forced, 
greatly against his will, to .part with her and the housemaid, re- 
placing them by one general servant. (He could not avoid winc- 
ing as he said this, it was so very disagreeable; but it was a duty.) 

“ What did vou say, sir V” asked Mrs. Jonson, in indignation. 
“Part with me? me, as has done the best 1 could for you ever 
since 1 have been in your service, and has looked on you, as one 
may say, as a son.” (The vicar’s age was thirty five, that of Mrs. 
Jonson forty.) 

“ I have fully appreciated your faithful service, Mrs. Jonson, 
and your unvarying kindness to me,” he replied, gently. “ Be : 
lieve me, I am not taking this step because 1 have any fault what- 
ever to find eilhei with you or with Sarah. 1 am doing it because, 
for some little time, I am obliged to save expense in every way pos- 
sible. For yourself, I have always considered your services by no 
means adequately repaid, in actual money value. I am quite aware 
of your kindly feeling toward me.” 

“Very well, sir,” replied Mrs. Jonson, with determination; 
“ then I can tell you I’m not going. Sarah Jane may go, and wel- 
come; she has always been more trouble than enough, being that 
extravagant and that careless, and 1 shall do quite as well without 
hei. Who will cook you nic6 little dishes for supper when you 
come home, unexpected-like, if 1 go? A general servant, indeed! 
No, sir, 1 ain’t a going!” 

The vicar was much gratified. 

“ I am very glad to hear you say so, Mrs. Jonson,” he said, 
much relieved. “ 1 should have missed you sorely had you left 
me. It is very good of you.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEW FORTH. 53 

He sighed as lie thought how much unpleasantness his peiforeed 
economy was entailing on others. 

“ Don’t take it to heart, sir,” said Mrs. Jonson, cheerfully; *' and 
if 1 may make so hold, 1 don’t wish to take so much wages now. 
Servants aie cheap here, and many and many a cook I know does 
not get eighteen pounds a year. I shall be quite satisfied with 
twelve.” 

But this her master would not hear of. 

Lent was now coming, and the various church entertainments 
were to conclude for the present. Owing to pressure of business, 
the vicar had requested Admiral Hatton to organize the second 
concert, at which, however, he would preside, himself taking the 
management of the third. But although ostensibly under Admiral 
Hatton’s direction, the entire worl^ was undertaken by his daughter 
Gertrude. 

Warned by the failures of the preceding entertainment — which 
failures had been a source of great though unexpressed annoyance 
to Mrs. Leslie— she had secured an ample supply ot talent, and, to 
guard against any non-appearance ot Urn performers, had taken 
care that there should be two or three people in the room who 
could sing, if called on. 

The refreshment supply, too, was much more limited, consisting 
only of tea and lemonade, and the looking-glass was taken into 
the room before the audience ariived. 

On this point Mr. Leslie was very wroth. 

** 1 told the fellows over and over again,” tie averred, “ that 
ever thing was to be sent in early; you will have the pull ot me, 
Miss Hatton.” 

As in this case she had, for the concert was a decided success; 
so much so, that it was resolved to engage the large Town Hall 
for the final entertainment, which, when it at length came off, was 
more than a success. Every seat was occupied at a quarter to eight ; 
the vicar and Mr. Leslie spent almost an hour in striving to place 
chairs in every available space after the concert had begun; and 
finally, the platform itself being crowded, a number of people 
spent the evening in the doorways and passages, Mr. Leslie tailing 
them he was extremely sorry, but all he could say was, he hoped 
they would imagine tuey were at a promenade concert. 

At the close of the evening he addressed the audience, thanking 
them for their support, and afterward spoke in such high terms of 
Mr. Manley — more especially alluding to his unvarying kindness 
to every one — that the unfortunate vicar, who was sitting on the 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTH. 


54 

platform, turned sharply round and leaned his head against Ids 
hand, his profile only being visible, his cheek one vivid crimson. 

He \*as a man of extreme delicacy as well as depth of feeling, 
and this open tribute was to him almost painful. Ah, if he had 
foreseen how variable is human judgment, and how soon the ver- 
dict of Newforth would be reversed. Happily, he could not see 
into the future. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE WINDOW. 

Lent passed away quietly. The vicar was a most thorough and 
earnest churchman, but he held no extreme views. He contented 
himself with increasing the services and addresses, and urging his 
congregation to give up tor a time the dislractions of the world, in 
order that they might have more time and inclination for prayer, 
meditation, and general interest, thought, and action in doing good. 

And at the close of Lent his beautiful chancel window was fin- 
ished; it was to be first displayed on Easter Sunday. But, on the 
Saturday preceding, he thought he should like Ethel to see it be- 
fore any one else; that he should wish to show it to her himself. 
He scarcely knew how to manage this, but walked toward Admiral 
Hatton’s house, trusting to a chance opportunity. 

The first person he met was Mr. Campbell, who was also going to 
the admiral's house, though coming from a difierent direction. 

“ Ycu are* the very person 1 wished to see, Mr. Manley,” said the 
younger man. 44 1 have to announce an approaching visitor to 
you.” 

44 Indeed, who is that?” 

44 A very old friend of yours, a Mr. Yorke.” 

44 Mr. Yorke!” repealed the vicar, his eyes sparkling with pleas- 
ure. 44 1 shall be indeed glad to see Mr. Yorke; he was one of my 
best friends. Where did you see him?” 

44 1 have been staying for a few days with the Vincents, at 
Orton, and met him there. He and his wife have just come from 
Australia.” 

, Now, Orton was some twenty miles frcm Newforth, and in the 
same county. Captain Vincent was county member, and was a 
man of considerable wealth and importance. Mr. Campbell, a 
man of good connections, was distantly related to Captain Vincent. 

44 1 shall be delighted to see Mr. Yorke,” said the vicar again, as 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


55 


well as he could make himself heard for a most discordant brass 
band that was playing. “ 1 had lost sight of him for a long 
while. When is he coming?’' 

“ Some day next week. He knew you would be very much 
taken up just at Easter. 1 happened to mention one day to Mr. 
Yorke, who, with his very pretty wife, is staying at Templemore, 
that the parson’s name at Newforth was Manley, and then he ques- 
tioned me. He seemed equally pleased to hear about you.” 

‘‘1 have never seen his present wife. 1 knew the first Mrs. 
Yorke slightly.” 

“ She is extremely pretty,” returned Mr. Campbell, “though 1 
prefer Mrs. Vincent.” 

“ 1 do not know Mrs. Vincent,” replied the vicar. “ Really, 1 
think that band is a disgrace to the town.” 

“ 1 wonder you don’t take it in hand,” returned Mr. Campbell; 
“you seem king of Newforth.” 

Miss Ethel now came down the road, and stopped to speak. 

“ Well met!” said the vicar.- “Will you come with me to see 
the new window?” 

“ Oli, yes; 1 should like it above all things,” returned Ethel. 

“Ami included in this invitation?” asked Mr. Campbell. 

“ To be frank,” replied the vicar, with a smile, “ you were not.” 

“ Honesty is the best policy,” said the young man. “ 1 will take 
myself off at once.” 

“ But, ” resumed the vicar, “ 1 shall be extremely pleased to show 
it to you on any other occasion.” 

“ To be frank,” retorted the young man, “ 1 don’t think 1 care 
about seeing it. Now, would you care about, seeing my ship?” 

“Very much,” replied Mr. Manley, promptly and unexpectedly. 

“All right; then we’ll get up a party to go there,” said Mr. 
Campbell. “ Now, I’m off.” 

“ There’s something up between your sister and the vicar,” he 
remarked to Miss Hatton. “ 1 was coolly told to take myself off.” 

“1 am inclined to tbink that there is something up, though 1 
know he has not proposed to her.” 

“ Do you think she will have him?” 

“ I assure you we should all marry him were he to ask us,” re- 
turned Miss Hatton, with a laugh. 

“ 1 think it's about time 1 went, after that.” 

“ You will please to remember that, as far as I know, he has no 
intention of asking all the young ladies of Newforth to marry 
him.” 


56 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF IEWFORTH. 

44 Ob, bother it'/’ 

“ That is rude.” 

'■ 1 will apologize, it Mrs. Hatton will ask me to stay to dinner/; 

44 Dinnerl” echoed Admiral Hatton, who had been quietly asleep 
in his arm-chair at the other end of the r< om. '* Ot course you will 
stay to dinner.” 

44 There is hashed mutton and plum-pudding for dinner; you 
don’t liked hashed mutton, Mr. Campbell, do you, any better than 
‘ hashed vicar ’? \ou set 1 haven’t forgotten your rude speech.” 

44 1 like anything 1 can get, so long as l may stay.” 

“You may stay,” said Miss Hatton, graciously. 

Meantime the vicar and Ethel were walking toward the church. 
It was a bright, cold, clear day, the tracery of the bare branches 
was beautiful against the blue sky. Ethel’s color was high, her 
face glowed with health and pleasure. 

** She is lovely to-day,” said the vicar to himself. 

The sea Was rolling on the sands in great waves; its roar reached 
them at the church gates; the distant vessels were tossing up and 
down. 

44 How I love the sound ot the sea,” -said Ethel; 44 it speaks to 
me in actual language.” 

44 There is no doubt,” he replied, 44 that three fourths of the 
world go through it in ignorance of the vivid imaginations and deep 
intellectual sympathies of the remaining quarter. You are imag- 
inative, perhaps too much so for your own comfort.” 

“But,” she returned, quickly, 44 you can understand me; for 
you are also imaginative.” 

44 It is one of my duties to keep my imagination under control. 
1 hope 1 do not treat you to sermons consisting of speculative 
theories, ratter than truths.” 

44 Oh, no,” said the girl, warmly. 41 1 wish you would let me 
tell you what 1 do think of your sermons.” 

They were standing in the church-yard, so full now of graves 
that burials were no longer permitted there, but no longer untidy 
and neglected. 

She pointed to a cross standing at the head of one ot the more 
recent graves, bearing the inscription, 44 1 am the Way, the Truth, 
and the Life.” 

41 1 think,” she said, gravely, 44 that your sermons teach us that.” 

44 It is all 1 wish to teach,” he replied, quietly. 

lie now proposed that they should enter the church. He was 
pleased that the conversation had taken this serious tope; he did 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEW FORTH. 5? 

not wish his window, the glory of his heart, to be seen in a light 
mood for the first time. 

He watched her as she first raised her eyes to the chancel, he 
watched her as she advanced slowly up th6 aisle and stopped on 
reaching the steps. 

He was thankful that she did not exclaim, “ 1 like it so much,” 
or, 44 It is so pretty,” or auy thing of that sort. 

She looked in silence for some five minutes, her color coming 
and going, her face full of expression, and then she turned to him 
with a light in her eyes: 

44 1 think, Mr. Manley, that it is perfect .” 

The window was divided into three compartments: the center 
represented the Sermon on the Mount; the two sides, Peter walk- 
ing on the Sea of Galilee, and Paul bidding farewell to the brethren. 
It was a work of high art; the subject occupied scarcely more than 
one-half of the glass. The uppei portion consisted of delicate 
tracery which seemed to melt away into air, conveying the idea of 
unlimited space. It was a veiy beautiful conception. 

The vicar explained the subjects, and then asked what it was 
that she so particularly admired in it. 

44 It is this,” she replied; 44 it is not what you see, it is what you 
can imagine about it.” 

44 What does it remind you of?” 

44 It reminds me of Heaven,” she answered, simply. 

He made no reply. A higher tribute he knew could not be paid. 

The communion-table was already decorated with white flowers 
for Easter. 

44 They are very beautiful,” she said, pointing to them. 44 1 
hope there will be a fine day to-morrow, as so many people will 
come.” 

44 1 think it will be fine.” 

44 But there are always a number of communicants, whether on 
Sundays or week-days; how is it, Mr. Manley, wheu there used to 
be so few?— and yet you never find fault with them for not com- 
ing, or anything of that sort.” 

44 People do not come because they are found fault with,” he re- 
plied, with a smile. 44 It is time for us to be going.” 

He locked the door after them and looked up at the short tower. 

44 We must get the spire up so'on. It is now Easter-eve; we will 
have the vane flying, I hope, by next Christmas.” 

44 It will take so much money,” said Ethel. 

44 1 think we shall do it.” 


58 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ You must get some rich man to pay for it." 

“ Oh,” said the vicar, quickly, “ I think it would be so much 
nicer if we were to do it ourselves.” 

“ There are not many months to Christmas. As you say, Lent 
is over; but, oh, Mr. Manley,” she continued, laughing, “you 
were determined to inflict some penance on your congregation 
during Lent, and I must say that you selected a form that was 
very real.” 

‘‘/inflicted penance?” he repeated, in astonishment. ‘‘'What 
was it?” 

Now, during Lent the vicar had obtained the services of various 
clergymen from distances; they had preached for him continually; 
indeed, he scarcely ever was in the pulpit himself. 

“ The penance was depriving us of your sermons, and 1 must 
say 1 wish you had selected any other form.” 

“ Do you know that you are trying to flatter me? 1 know that I 
ought sternly to rebuke you; but somehow,” he continued, with 
a smile, “ I do not feel in the humor for rebuking you just now.” 

“ I should not mind your rebuke,” she answered. 

‘‘Then 1 will not administer it. But suppose,” he added, “ it 
was a penance to me not to preach in my own church; for 1 feel it 
as such.” 

“ AY ill ycu come in?” she aked, at their garden gate. 

“ No, thank you, not to-day.” 

* A warm, delicious sense of pleasure was over Ethel as she slow- 
ly removed her out-door clothing in her room, and adorned herself 
for dinner. She pinned some violets into her dress, and went down- 
stairs, her beautiful eyes soft with pleasure. 

44 And how has the love-making progressed?” asked Mr. Camp- 
bell, who was sitting over the fire with Admiral and Mrs. and Miss 
Hatton. 

“Love-making?” said Ethel, indignantly, stopping short in the 
middle of the room. “ Love-making? and from the vicar? How 
dare you, Mr. Campbell?” 

“1 apologize,” said the. voung man, negligently. “1 thought, 
as I had known you ever since you were as high as the table, that 
I might venture on a joke. And, pray, why shouldn’t your vicar 
make love as well as any other man? He isn’t a saint; he is only 
a man, I suppose.” 

“No quarreling,” said the admiral, good-humoredly. “You 
young people are always at it. 1 suppose it’s another name for 
friendly conversation.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


59 


Just so, sir,’' replied Mr. Campbell, who never for one moment 
lost respect to his superior officer, independently of the admiral 
being so much his senior; “ you are quite right.” 

‘‘You shouldn’t have said it,” remarked Miss Hatton, in a low 
voice. “ Ethel is so much vexed.” 

Mr. Campbell pulled his beard impatiently, and took out his 
watch. 

“ Isn’t it getting time for the hashed mufton?” he asked. Now 
Mr. Campbell hated hashed mutton, as Miss Hatton very well knew. 

“ i think we are going to do a little better for you than that,” 
she replied, brightly; “ so don’t be cross.” 


CHAPTER X. 

REFORMATION. 

The vicar had now been a year in Newforth, and a marvelous 
change had taken place in the town. 

The church was thronged and, to hi3 special delight, largely at- 
tended by the poor, for whom some of the best seats were reserved. 
Every service was well attended, every ofieitory good. There were 
coal clubs and shoe clubs and clothing clubs; there were Young 
Men's Associations and Young Women’s Associations; there were 
choral meetings, and choir meetings, and district visiting, and 
Bible classes, and children’s services, and National Church 
Schools and mothers’ meetings and Sunday-schools, and missionary 
meetings, and church entertainments, and parish libraries, and 
cricket and football clubs, and swimming-schools, and charities of 
all sons— all in connection with the trim, well-*kept parish church, 
the neglected church of so short a time back. 

‘‘ We live in a whirl of gayety,” said Mr. Leslie. 

Every poor person was relieved, every sick and afflicted person 
visited, not necessarily by the vicar or curate— for no two men 
could have done it all— but by some one. 

The staff of church workers was enormous; no sooner did one 
resign than another supplied his place. There were no quarrels, 
there were no dissensions; the vicar was the head, and the others 
were content that it should be so. Evea the verger was satisfied, 
although he had been neard to say that his work was now some- 
thing awful, not at all like the easy life he led in Mr. Smith’s time, 
and that the vicar did blow him up so if the people were not prop- 
erly seated at the week-day services. 


60 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTH. 


“ We are too heavenly,” said Mr. Leslie; ‘‘it won’t last, it 
can’t last— being, as we are, human beings.” 

He was light; it did not last. But for the present all was peace. 
Aarhiral Hatton was genially tolerant, Mr. Leslie active and most 
eneigetic. In spite of his former asseveration that he could not 
bear missionaries, he had been known to hold the plate at some of 
the meetings, and, with his accustomed quickness, to Older all the 
proceedings. He had^even been seen— though with the under- 
standing that the fact was not to be made public— to take a class 
at the Sunday-school for some weeks, during the absence of the reg- 
ular teacher. 

The tiouble that had been hanging over the vicar seemed to have 
lifted, his face had resumed its brightness, his severe economy had 
been given up, and another Sarah Jane had been installed at the 
vicarage. 

A great souice of pleasure had now been afforded him in the 
society of Mr. and Mrs. Yorke. The former had been so much 
pleased with Newfortli, on spending the day there, and so heartily 
glad to see Mi. Manley, that, with his wife’s cordial approbation, 
he had taken a furnished house on the Esplanade for the three 
summer months. They had lately come from Australia, and were 
to return thither again. Tney had one child, a very pretty little 
girl, and were, he thought, tlie happiest married couple he knew. 

There was only one thing wanting to complete the vicar’s happi- 
ness: it was to ask Ethel Hatton to become his wife; and this he 
determined to do on the first favorable oppoitunity. 


CHAPTER XL 

NAVAL OFFICERS. 

It was a bright, warm day in June. The blue sky was flecked 
with little fleecy clouds, a gentle breeze was stirring. 

Admiral Hatton’s garden was in perfection, the roses were in full 
bloom. At the ball door were drawn up two dashing turnouts; 
Mr. Yorke was on the box-seat of the one, bis own mail-pliaeton. 
Mr. Campbell prepared to mount that of the other. 

The long-talked-of visit to his ship was now to take place, which, 
for one reason or another, had been so often postponed. He had 
invited Mi. and Mrs. Yorke, Mr. Manley and the two Miss Hat- 
tons (whom Mis. Yorke was to chaperon) fiom Newforth, while 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEW FORTH. 61 

he had also invited Captain and Mrs. Vincent from Templemore. 
They were all to lunch at the hotel at Seafort, and have tea on 
board. But Captain and Mrs. Vincent had replied that, as a Mr. 
and Mrs. Fortescue were staying with them, the party would be 
very large, and they would only come on condition that they 
should give the luncheon, although they would have great pleasure 
in taking tea on board at Mr. Campbell’s invitation. 

“ Why, of course, they caD give the lunch, if they prefer it,” 
that young man had exclaimed; “and welcome — rich people as 
they are! It had much better come out of their pocket than mine; 
but, anyhow, I’ll order it, and we won’t spare the champagne.” 

“ Mind that there is coffee for Mr. Manley,” Miss Hatton had 
replied; “he won’t touch wine.” 

“ More fool he,” returned Mr. Campbell. 

The order of going was now settled. The whole party would 
have preferred that Mr. Yorke should drvye his wife, and that the 
other gentlemen should take the young ladies; but, as propriety 
had to be considered and Kewforlh was given to scandal, it was 
decided that Mr. Yorke should take Miss Hatton, while Mrs. Yorke 
was to accompany Mr. Campbell. The expense of the second mail- 
phaeton, which was hired, was shared by the vicar and Mr. Camp- 
bell. The latter felt it his duty to offer the reins to Mr. Manley; 
he was much relieved when they were refused. 

“1 thought you liked driving, Mr. Manley,” said Ethel, beside 
whom he was seated. 

“ So I do; but there are times when I prefer uninterrupted con- 
versation.” 

She looked pleased. She was looking her best, in an irreproach- 
able costume of dark blue (her favorite color), trimmed plentifully 
with gold braid; a sailor hat completed the get-up. 

“ We all know the opinion entertained by the public of naval offi- 
cers’ horsemauship and driving,” said Mr. Campbell. “ 1 hope 1 
shall get you there all right.” 

“ We are not at all afraid,” said Mrs. Yorke, tfho could drive as 
well as any one since she had been to Australia, her husband hav- 
ing taken most especial pains to teach her. 

“ Be sure you wrap up well, my dears; it will be cold on the 
water,” said good Mrs. Hatton. 

Mr. Yorke raised his hat, and, taking the lead, went off with a 
flourish. 

Mr. Campbell tinned to the admiral. 

♦♦ By the way, sir* I forgot to tell you that Worsley’s ship js in; 


62 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEW FORTH. 


slit arrived last night. 1 shouldn’t wonder if he were to come on 
board us to-day.” This piece of information had been purposely 
withheld until Miss Hatton was out ot hearing. 

• “ That fooi,” returned the admiral, contemptuously. But Com- 
mander Henry Worsley was no fool. “ 1 tell you what it is, my 
lad,” continued the old man, pushing back his gray hair, “ it’s 
no use for any man to wish to be my son-in-law who is ashamed 
of the queen’s service and ot his uniform.” 

This speech might have been considered suggestive, but it was 
uttered with the simplicity which the old school of naval officers 
generally possesssed, although in conjunction with much practical 
shrewdness. For in his time the polished, somewhat cynical, 
aesthetic, learned, iron-clad type of officer had no existence; not a 
single specimen was to be found. 

He always believed that the young men who came to his house 
were in love with his daughters; but if this were the case, and al- 
though he had every wish to see them well married, he certainly did 
not lend a helping hand toward this desirable consummation. No 
sooner did he see any young man in earnest conversation with 
either Gertrude or Ethel than, with a benevolent smile on his fine, 
rugged face, he would join them, without the remotest notion that 
his presence at the time was other than desirable. 

INow, although the girls were greatly attached to their father, 
who looked on ihem both as prodigies of beauty and cleverness, it 
must be owned that this course of proceeding sometimes became a 
trial almost too much tor flesh and blood to bear, and Gertrude had 
more than once complained to her mother: 

44 1 wish you could give father a hint not always to come when 
there is something special going on. 1 knew young xAllen was on 
the point of proposing to Ethel the other day in the garden, when 
father came up, and insisted on his talking about the war.” 

bhe might have added that the very same thing had happened to 
herself when, one day, she was deep in conversation with Captain 
W orsley. 

" Your father does enjoy being with you girls so much,” Mrs. 
Hatton had replied. 

‘‘ Oh, very well,” Gertrude answered, coolly; 44 but when our 
prospects are blighted forever you will have yourself to thank, you 
know.” 

“ They are not likely to be blighted just yet, my dear.” 

Now the vicar was well aware of this predilection op the part cf 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 63 

the admiral, and had made up his mind that when he proposed to 
Ethel, which he purposed doing this very day, it should certainly 
not be either in Admiral Hatton’s house or garden. 

Mr. Campbell had raised his whip for a start when the old man 
checked him. 

“Why are you not in uniform, you, sir, as you are going aboard ? J ‘ 

Now, Mr. Campbell was habited in gray, ana had on a round 
hat of Tyrolean shape. 

“ 0h, come, sir, there is a time foi all things,” returned the 
young man. “ 1 really couldn’t drive through Newforth in uni- 
form— that is to say, not on a mail-phaeton. They would take me 
for one of the Four-in-hand Club, or, more probably, a railway 
guard or a pier-mastei.” 

“ So you are ashamed of your uniform also; you had better mind 
you p’s and q’s, young man.” 

“ I assure you 1 am not, sir,” replied Mr. Campbell, who saw he 
had put his foot in it; “ and 1 have already given orders to have 
my uniform at the hotel, so that 1 may diess there. Of course, I 
am going on board in uniform— and a 'precious bore, too,” he mut- 
tered to himself. 

“ I can’t for the life of me see why you shouldn’t be in uniform 
now,” retorted the admiral, warmly. “ I never was ashamed of 
mine; why, at this present moment, 1 have some uf it on,” he con- 
tinued, pointing to his trousers, the remains of his former outfit. 

“Dark blye trousers are very fashionable, sir,” returned Mr. 
Campbell, with a laugh, in which Mrs. Yorke could not refrain 
from joining, as the cut of the admiral’s trousers was decidedly 
anything but fashionable. 

But, although there was a twinkle of humor in the vicar’s eye, 
no smile was suffered to appear on his face. 

“ Look at Mr. Manley there,” proceeded the admiral, who had 
by no means relished the insinuation that he was wealing blue trou- 
sers bfcause they were fashionable. “ Look at Mr. Manley, he 
isn’t ashamed of his colors; you never see him, except in his black 
coat.” 

“ But what could I wear?” the vicar hastened to interpose; “ I 
really have no other clothes except clerical ones.” 

“ It this is going on, father,” said Ethel Hatton, “ Gertrude and 
Mr. Yorke will arrive and finish their luncheon before we get there; 
1 really think you must forgive Mr. Campbell for dressing to please 
himself.” 


64* THE BACHELOR YlC'Ali OE KEWEORTH. 

The admiral recoveied liis good-humor. 

“ Have it your own way, my dear ; a nice day of it you will have, 
you young people together.” 

“ 1 will be responsible for your daughters,” said Mrs. Yorke, 
with a bright smile. 

*' Get along 1” returned the admiral, who was now intimate with 
the Yorkes; “ a young thing like you.” 

“ But 1 will be responsible for Miss Ethel,” said the vicar, in 
pursuance of a plan he had determined on; ” and if you do not see 
her in good time this evening, you will know that 1 will account tc 
you for her. You can drive on, Mr. Campbell,” he added, raising 
his hat to Mrs. Hatton. 

This speech opened even the eyes of the admiral. 

“ To think of that,” he ejaculated, as the phaeton disappeared, 
“ and 1 never had any idea of it before this minute. Well, well, 1 
suppose the girls must go some time or other, and X believe he is as 
good a man as ever lived.” 

‘‘ 1 am sure of it,” returned Mrs. Hatton, warmly; ‘‘1 wonder 
if he will speak to her to-day.” 

” What an extraordinary service the navy is!” said Mrs. Yorke, 
” 1 never can understand it.” 

How so?” said Mr. Campbell. 

“ Commanders are always called ‘ Captain.’ What is that for, 
when ‘ Commander ’ is so much prettier?” 

” Goodness knows — 1 don’t, Mrs. Y'orke.” 

“ And then there is relative rank, which always makes Admiral 
Hatton so angry.” 

Oh,” replied the young man, warmly, “ that is a most con- 
founded shame. (I really beg your pardon, Mrs. Yorke.) Here 
am X, ranking with a major; and if 1 go to a party I’ll be hanged 
if every one there doesn’t think a vast deal more of some junior 
captain of a regiment than of me, because 1 am called Mr.” 

“But why do ycu rank with a major if you have no title— X 
mean, no title that you are addressed by?” 

“ The rule of the servica,” said Mr. Campbell, with an unpleas- 
ant shrug. “ 1 rank with a major, because 1 am of a certain sen- 
iority; a junior lieutenant ranks with a captain in the aimy.” 

“ It certainly ought to be altered,” said Mrs. Yorke, conscious 
that she herself had thought more of a captain in the army than of 
a captain in the navyl “ And who does a captain in the navy rank 
with?” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


65 


“ He ranks with a colonel. Not to bore you with too much de- 
tail, the ranks lun broadly thus: 


Admiral 

Captain 

Commander 

Lieutenant 

Sub-lieutenant 

Midshipman 


— General, 

= Colonel, 

Lieut.-Colonel, 

=* Major or Captain 

(according to seniority), 

= Lieutenant, 

=» Junior-Lieutenant.” 


1 really wonder, then, that they have not made the same titles 
of the same rank/’ said Mis. Yorke. “You must forgive my 
ignorance, Mr. Campbell.” 

“ 1 would forgive your ignorance easily enough,” he returned, 
graciously; “ but the worst of it is, it is nearly every civilian’s ig- 
norance. The navy has always been misunderstood,” he added, 
having in his heart a real love for his profession. 

“You must not say that,” said Mrs. Yorke, with a smile. “ 1 
assure you we are very proud of our navy, and ceitainly, just now, 
of our naval brigade, whiuh has done such good service. And who 
does the chaplain rank with?” 

“He has no rank. The chaplain has no rank,” repeated Mr. 
Campbell, in a loud tone of voice, evidently tor Mr. Manley’s ben- 
efit; but, although the vicar smiled, he apparently took no heed. 

They had left Newfortb, and were on the high-road which skirt- 
ed the clifis forming the shelter of Fisherman’s Cove. On their 
right was a thick wood, a beautiful wood, where wild strawberries 
grew, fullof fine old trees and dense undergrowth, through which 
paths had been cut; a wood sloping gradually upward until it led, 
by winding 'ways, to the higher ground above. 

“ Ho you think you will be able to walk home from here after 
the day’s fatigues are over?” said the vicar to Ethel, in a low tone. 

“ I am sure 1 could, if necessary.” 

“ TV ill you walk home from tlfis point with meV y 

She blushed slightly. 

“ Yes, if you like, Mr. Manley,” she replied, in a voice that was 
almost inaudible. 

“Y 7 ou will do so, knowing what 1 shall have tc say to you, 
Ethel,” he returned, looking full into her down-dropped face. 

But she was saved from a reply by Mr. Campbell stopping the 
phaetcn and shouting to Mr. Y’orke, who, although driving slowly, 
pulled up with some difficulty, his horses being very fresh. 

3 


66 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEWEORTH. 


“Why are we stopping?’' asked the vicar. “Is anything 
wrong?” 

“ I suppose you will be very much shocked, Mr. Manley,” said 
Mrs. Yoike; “ but I thought we had now made sufficient sacrifice 
to propriety, and, as 1 know Mr. Campbell is anxious to drive Miss 
Hatton, it occurred to me that she and 1 might change places.” 

But Mr. Campbell averred that he was not at all anxious to lose 
his companion, and would preter going cn as they were. 

Miss Hatton, on being appealed to on the same subject, declared 
that she had never enjoyed a drive so much in her life, and that 
she had had no idea how charming Mr. iorke was. He took off 
his hat to her at this speech, with an amused look in his hazel 
eyes. He was a very handsome man, and though devotedly at- 
tached to his wife, was by no means averse to driving a young lady 
looking so brilliantly handsome as Miss Hatton on that morning. 

Mrs. Yorke laughed. 

“You have my full permission to flirt, 'William,” she said; “ for 
my part, I am very happy. In this world it never answers to make 
a martyr of yourself, for you get no thanks from any one. 1 sim- 
ply made the proposal from a genuine regard to other people’s sup- 
posed feelings.” 

"1 am quite sure of that,” said the vicar, with a smile. 

“ Why did we have a mail-phaeton to go so short a distance?” 
asked Ethel. 

“ 1 left the ariangement to Mr. Campbell,” replied the vicar. 
“ He preferred it because Mr. Yoike has one.” 

“ Shall you have to return early?” 

“INo; 1 am going to take a holiday to-day— a genuine whole 
holiday; the first 1 have had since 1 haVe been here. Mr. Rowen 
has kindly consented to do all my work. This is going to be a 
red-letter day, 1 hope, jfor us both ,” he added, after a short pause; 
“ is it not, Ethel?” 

“ I hope so,” she replied, looking away. 

At the hotel they found Captain and Mrs. Vincent, and Mr. and' 
Mrs. Fortescue. Mr. Campbell performed the necessary introduc- 
tions and went away, reappeaiing in an incredibly short space of 
time in uniform. 

“ How nice you look,” exclaimed Miss Hatton, who was net 
troubled with reserve in company; “ doesn’t he, Mrs. Y r oike?” 

Mr. Fortescue smiled, and observed quietly that it was some- 
what unfair tor one member of a company to have so considerable 
an advantage over the remainder; but, as that member was soon to 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 67 

be their host on board ship, he supposed they must fain submit to 
circumstances with a good giace. 

Mrs. Yorke said that Mr. Campbell did look very nice, and that, 
for her part, she had always thought naval uniform very becoming. 

The luncheon was very good, and Mr. Campbell certainly did 
not spare the champagne. Indeed, the vicar glanced at him once 
or twice with some anxiety, and Mr. Fortescue gave a sarcastic 
smile. 

The vicar drank water, and after luncheon took a cup of coffee. 

“ You. abstain on pfinciple, I suppose?” said Mrs. Vincent who, 
from old associations, loved clergymen generally, and had been 
greatly prepossessed in Mr. Manley’s favor by his appearance and 
manner. 

“ 1 do.” 

"Principle !” said Mr. Campbell, with a sneer; 44 I’m tired of 
hearing about principle; it’s humbug. There isn’t a single harm- 
less gratification that a man wishes to indulge in but some one 
talks to him about principle.” 

The vicar quietly ignored this speech, which had been very rude- 
ly delivered. 

They were standing on the balcony of the hotel, which over- 
looked the sea. 

“You are so rude,” said Miss Hatton. “ I give you fair warn- 
ing 1 will not speak to you the whole of the day unless you apolo- 
gize to the vicar.” 

“ Didn’t mean any offense to you , Mr. Manley,” said Mr. Camp- 
bell, sulkily, knowing that Miss Hatton would keep her wcrd if 
he did not make some amends. 

44 1 have taken no offense,” said the vicar, giavely. 

“ What ship is that lying off here?” asked Miss Hatton. 

Mr. Campbell evaded a reply. 

44 What ship is that?” 

“ It isn’t a ship.” 

“ What steamer or what anything is that, then?” 

“It is the ‘Highflyer;’ a gun-vessel.” 

“The ‘Highflyer!’” repeated Miss Hattcn, her eyes spark- 
ling. “Oh, I am glad; why, that is Captain Worsley’s ship.” 

“ I told you it wasn’t a ship.” 

“ Whatever sails or steams, and has more than one mast, is a 
jhip,” returned Miss Hatton, with decision; “and 1 shall call it 
a ship. You must go and ask Captain WoTsley to come on board 
the ‘ Victorious ' ” (to which ship Mr. Campbell belonged). 


68 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTH. 


“ I’ll be hanged it 1 will,” he replied. 

Mr. Fortescue saw that a quarrel was perilously imminent, and 
came forward. He objected to quarrels; they were bad form, and 
interfered with other people’s enjoyment. The vicar also objected 
to quarrels, but on other grounds; he remained silent, looking 
grave. 

“ I speak with profound deference, Miss Hatton, ” said Mr. Fortes- 
cue, *' being painfully conscious of my own ignorance, and know- 
ing that 1 am addressing the daughter of a naval cfficer; but I 
should myself have thought that a ship might have been differently 
defined. Pray understand, though, that I am quite open to correc- 
tion.” 

“ You are quite right,” she replied, laughing. “ 1 know I made 
a very absurd and foolish speech, because 1 was cross.” 

“ Becomingly cross,” said Mr. Fortescue. “ An angry woman 
has a flushed face, and sometimes talks louder than is requisite; a 
~ young lady who is a little cross, perhaps with reason, is only 
piquante.” 

‘ How nice it is to meet with men like you and Mr. Yorke and 
Caplain Vincent, after living in a small town. With the exception 
of the vicar, 1 do not know any young man resident in the place 
who has a grain of manners,” said Miss Hatton, with perhaps mere 
. sincerity than wisdom. 

“ See, Mr. Campbell,” said Mr. Manley, with the courteous 
manner habitual to him, “ is there not a boat putting off from your 
ship?” 

“Yes,” returned Mr. Campbell; “it is the captain’s; 1 asked 
him to send it.” 

INow, it is unusual for a lieutenant to be allowed to send for his 
friends in the captain’s boat, an ordinary gig being the usual ar- 
rangement; but Mr. Campbell had taken the precaution to mention 
who his friends were, and the captain hai himself suggested his 
- boat, and stayed on board to receive them, Captain Vincent being 
a man of so much importance in all the county round. Though 
a member of no long standing, it had been rumored, and with 
truth, that the next vacancy in the cabinet would be ottered to 
' him. 

A lieutenant came on shore with the galley, although this honor 
was completely thrown away on the entire party, not one of whom, 
v with the exception of Mr. Campbell, being aware that it was a 
compliment to them, and he would have preferred its being dis- 
pensed with. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTH. 69 

“ This is a beautiful boat,” said Mrs. Vincent, looking at the 
gay flags spread over the seals. 

The lieutenant, one Mr. Annesley, smiled. 

“ Isn’t a boat?” asked Mrs. Vincent, with a most winning smile. 

“lam very ignorant on such matters.” 

“It is certainly a boat,” replied Mr. Annesley. 

“1 am given to understand, on the best authority,” said Mr. 
Fortescue, ** that the time-honored phrases and expressions attrib- 
uted to the British navy are nothing more than pitfalls now, in 
which to entrap unwary civilians who may use them into display- 
ing their ignorance. For my own part, 1 shall be quite ready to 
believe whatever 1 am told, and 1 think it would be strongly ad- 
visable that 1 should not be told much.” 

“ You shall not be told too much, sir,” said Mr. Annesley, quite 
unaware that Mr. Fortescue had taken many a voyage, even on 
board a man-of-war occasionally, and was thoroughly conversant 
with the usages^f the navy. 

“Keep her away,” said Mr. Campbell, who was not steering; 
“ what are you going so near the ‘ Highflyer ’ for?” 

But the caution came too late, they were close beside her; and, 
what was more, Captain Worsley himself was on deck, watching 
the bolt. Hs caught sight at once of the Misses Hatton, and took 
off his cap and waved it enthusiastically. 

“ Are you going on board the ‘ Victorious?’ ” he asked, his face 
as bright as it well could be. 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Campbell. 

“ 1 will be after you in a quarter of an hour,” he replied. 

Miss Hatton’s face had crimsoned, her eyes shone. “ How little 
he is changed!” she said. “ How glad 1 shall be to see him.” 

“More naval men!” said Mr. Fortescue; “it is really rather 
hard on Mr. Manley, Mr. Yorke, and myself, who have not even 
been in the army.” 

“ Y'cu shouldn’t say even in the army,” said Mrs. Vincent, who 
was very tenacious about her husband’s late service. 

“My dear Mrs. Vincent, I will say whatever you please, and 
will say it how you please, so long as 1 am not expected to say that 
1 wish to be in the army or navy.” 

“Or the Church,” put in Mr. Campbell. 

“ Or the Church,” said Mr. Fortescue, lazily. 

It was something, from disuse, almost in the nature of a mew 
experience to the vicar to go into a society where the Church was 
not the prominent subject of conversation, and he himself the most 


70 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


important man present. He listened to the conversation in silence, 
and was conscious that lie vastly preferred the society of two or 
three clever men to that of a mixed assembly, such as the present. 
He was not thinking of himself, but of Ethel now ; he wanted to 
be alone with her, and would be glad when this should be the. case. 

The captain and officers of the “ Victorious ” received them 
with all that geniality and kindness so common to the navy. Under 
auy circumstances the ladies would have been paid attention, but 
fhey weTe, without exceplion, such remarkably pretty women that 
a itsra courtesy was bestowed on them. 

The captain requested that they would take tea in his cabin. 

“ You shall do the honors, Mr. Campbell,” he said, genially. 
“ 1 know it is your party.” 

“It doesn't seem much like it,” muttered that young man, in- 
audibly; “ every one else seems to come before me.” 

And now Captain Worsley came on board, and was most cordial- 
ly welcomed. He was a fine, smart -looking youqg man, with a 
brisk manner and gait, a keen, honest face, pointed nose, and fair 
hair. He was much addicted to fox-hunting, and always had a 
couple of hunters in his possession when in England. The officers 
on board the “ Victorious,” whom he had not seen since his return 
from Africa, shook hands with him as if they would have w T rung 
his hands off. 

Mr. Fortescue looked on with an amused smile. 

“ There is only one drawback to naval officers,” he remarked, 
quietly. 

44 What is that?” asked his wife. 

“They are so awfully glad to see you.” 

“That is the fault on tho right side,” remarked the vicar. 

“ Just listen,” said Mr. Fortescue. On all sides were heard, 
“ Awfully glad to see you, old man,” “ Awfully delighted to wel- 
come you, my boy,”' and so on. 

“ He must be a great favorite,” said Mrs. Fortescue, “ and he 
fs a very nice-looking young man.” 

Captain Worsley was now in tull conversation with Miss Hatton. 

“How awfully well you are looking!” he exclaimed. 

“ And so are you.” 

“Are you glad to see me?” 

“1 am very glad,” and more to the same purport. 

The afternoon was now drawing to a close. Mrs. Vincent sug- 
gested re-embarking, as they would have u long drive home. 

“ Where is the vicar?” asked Miss Hatton. 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 71 

The vicar was discovered on the lower deck, talking pleasantly 
to the men, and asking questions relative to the ship. 

“You understand these matters better than l do, Yorke,” he 
said; “ you have taken so many voyages. You have never told me 
any particulars of your shipwreck on that desert island.” 

But this was a subject on which Mr. Yorke was by no means- 
disposed to enter, his existence on the island having been the most 
miserable time of his life. 

“YVe have enjoyed our day very much, Mr, Campbell,” said 
Mrs. Vincent at the hotel to the young man, who was calling for 
more champagne; “ and you must come and see us soon at Orton. 

But this invitation was not seconded by Captain Vincent, who 
considered that Mr. Campbell had not behaved at all well. 

The champagne was brought, and refused by all the rest of the 
party. Mr. Campbell himself drank a tumblerful. 

Captain Worsley had accompanied the party ashore, and, uni- 
form notwithstanding, asked if he could return with the Newfortli 
people, in order to visit Admiral and Mrs. Hatton. 

“ I will give you a seat with pleasure,” said Mr. Yorke. 

Captain and Mrs. Vincent, and Mr. and Mrs. Fortescue, then de- 
parted, but not before Mrs. Vincent haa asked if they might, one 
day, be allowed to see the church at Newfortli, and the beautiful 
window of which they had heard so much; to which the vicar had 
responded with a most cordial assent. 

The order of going was once more to be decided on. Mr. Manley 
informed Mr. Yorke that be should feel obliged if he would drive 
himself and Ethel, leaving Mrs. Yorke and Miss Hatton tc the care 
of the young men. But Mr. Ycrke had been eying Mr. Campbell, 
and had decided that he was not in a fit condition to drive. 

He spoke a word aside to Captain Worsley. 

“ 1 say, old fellow,” said the latter, “ let me drive.” Now, he 
was a noted whip. 

“ 1 am going to drive myself,” returned Mr. Campbell, rudely* 

“ You can drive yourself said Mr. Yorke; “ but you must ex- 
cuse my remarking that 1 do not wish you to drive Mrs. Yorke.”’' 

“ Who wants—” he was beginning, when Captain Worsley puS 
his hand on his shoulder, and shoved him out at the door. He 
turned round furious. 

“ It was only a joke,” said Captain Worsley, with good humor. 

The vicai now interposed. 

“You asked me if 1 would drive here, and 1 declined, Mr* 
Campbell. What do you say to sitting behind with Miss Hattoiip 


72 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEW FORTH. 


and allowing me to hand ever the reins— (tor it is my turn to 
drive)— to Captain Worsley, whom Mrs. Yorke will accompany.” 

This speech had the desired eilect; Mr. Campbell put Miss Hat- 
ton in, and got up grumbling. 

“ You are behaving disgracefully,” she said; “ if it were not for 
the example of Captain Worsley, and all those nice men we have 
seen to-day, 1 should really feel ashamed to think that you repre- 
sented a naval officer.” 

” Upon my word!” he replied, savagely; “ how many more in- 
sults?” ' 

“ Oh, 1 mean to speak,” returned the girl, quickly. ‘‘You have 
had too much champagne, and you know it. If you taste one drop 
of anything except tea or coffee or water to-night, you shall never 
come to our house again.” 

This speech went a long way toward sobering Mr. Campbell, 
who knew that in Captain Worsley he had a most serious rival to 
fear. 

'* Take the lead, Captain Worsley,” said Mr. Yorke, instigated 
by the vicar. 

He, Captain Worsley, drove off at a rattling pace, although he 
called the horses a couple of screws. 

”1 hope you like fast driving, Mrs. Yorke,” he said. 

“I love it,” she rejeiped. 

Mr. Yorke’s horses were as fresh as in the morning, but he drove 
Slowly, and allowed the other vehicle to get out of sight. Mr. 
Manley had confided to him his intentions, and at the entrance to 
the wood Mr. Yorke drew up. 

The vicar lifted Ethel down. 

** Good-bye, Miss Ethel,” said Y’orke, with a laugh in his eyes; 

and, as my horses are so fresh, 1 think 1 will take them by the 
other road out of Newforth for a run, so that, if any accident 
should detain you on your road home, you will not he inquired for 
until they see me.” 


CHAPTER Xll„ 

A DECLARATION, 

The sun was declining when the vicar and Ethel entered the 
woods. They were such quiet woods; such lovely, lonely woods. 
The sunlight glinted through the boughs of'tlie trees, which had 
not lost their fresh gieen tint. It was cool, sweet, and peaceful; 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 73 

and as they gained the shelter of the thickets, and left the bioad 
track for one of the narrow winding paths, he put out his hand 
and tooK hers. 

He did not speak, neither did she. For some time they wan- 
dered on, her hand in his, crushing the wild strawberries beneath 
their feet unheeded, and passing by ferns and bracken and bram- 
ble-bushes in full blossom. 

The birds were singing over their heads; the tall trees of elm and 
oak. and mountain-ash and horse-chestnut Waved gently above 
them. Here and there they caught glimpses of the sea, far below. 

He did not wish to speak; she could not. But though there 
were no outward words, they were not silent; he knew that li6 wag 
expressing his thoughts as plainly as in language, and that she was 
answering them. There was perfect understanding between them. 
Now he realized, for the first time since he had attained his full 
manhood, that though a man may be a clergyman, though he may- 
have schooled and disciplined himself in every way to resist 
temptation, though he may even be a saint— -yet that, when once 
the full tide of love sweeps over him, he is carried out of himself, 
and is capable of speaking words which in his ordinary moments 
he would consider himself to be quite incapable of uttering. Tho 
vicar knew that at this moment he could have repeated much of 
the Song of Solomon. He remained silent until they had reached 
an open glade, where the turf was short and crisp, and the trees 
almost formed a circle. And then he looked at her face, and as he 
looked he knew that love is given of God, and that there was 
neither sense nor reason in not enjoying to the uttermost that best 
gift of the Creator. His cares had all rolled away from him for 
the time, and he was rejoicing in his sense cf the greatness and the 
holiness and the joy and the golden light of love. And then he 
took her in his arms, saying only, “ My well-belovedl” 

Their imaginations were both now so far removed from the tangi- 
ble things of earth— their thoughts, owing to the witchery of the 
hour and the scene, so ethearealized— that he felt he could not turn 
to her and say, “ Will you marry me?” neither was it necessary 
that he should; they were passing through an experience known 
generally but once in a life-time— to many never known at all— the 
communion of spirit. And then he removed his arms, and, again 
taking her hand, led her gently upward through the narrow paths, 
until they had reached the brow of the hill, and the wide country 
opened iu front of them. He tcld her to sit down. She did so, 
resting her head against the trunk of a tree; he threw himself down 


n 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


on the grass, leaning on one elbow. And then they both retained 
to realities. 

He turned his head, and saw the blue tea— so wonderfully, so 
marvelously blue— the sky-line meeting the waters imperceptibly. 
The vessels were passing and lepassing. The scene was very lovely; 
the sun, now low, sending his brilliantly colored rays over the broad 
expanse of the wavelets. 

“ Look Ethel!” he said, gently. - 

She turned and looked. 

“ And now,” he said, with a glow on his face and a light in his 
eyes, “ 1 will say what 1 ought to have begun by saying, but what 
you know perfectly well already: I love you, Ethel! Will you be 
my wife?” 

‘‘You know 1 will,” she returned, placing her ungloved hand 
in his. 

“ 1 do know it. Have we not been talking to one another in the 
Woods yonder?” 

“ But that is like mesmeiism,” she urged. 

*‘ Whatever it is like, it has been an actual experience, has it not? 
Ho you think, it 1 were to talk to you for halt an hour, that you 
would understand me any better?” 

“No.” 

** Neither do 1. 1 really think it has had its uses; it has taught 

me that we do not grow out ot what 1 once thought we did; 1 even 
think 1 shall be able to understand that very — what shall 1 call it — 
that very intense poetry of yours.” 

“ Oh, don’t call it intense,” she said, laughing, “ because intense 
— 1 don’t use the word in its slang sense, but in its literal— intense 
people and things are generally so very uncomfortable.” 

“ Are they? Well, although 1 am not a lover of poetry of the 
ardent kind— though I greatly appreciate some poetry which has 
deeper thought, in it— a curious idea passed through my mind while 
we were in the wood.” 

“ What was it?” 

“ That one of these days— when we are married, perhaps— if 1 
wanted to be quite sure ot youi unchangeable affection, 1 should 
like you to say to me three lines out of that very poem that 1 read 
in your drawing-room, and despised so much; they were 

‘“I will grow round him in his place, 

Grow, live, die looking on his face, 

Die, dying clasped in his embrace.’ 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 75 

ISow, who that knows me in this parish, or any other parish, coulil 
credit me with such an absurd desire?” 

“ 1 think my affection will' be unchangeable, Mr. Manley, even 
if 1 do not repeat the poetry,” said Ethel, with her eyes on the 
ground. “ But ought we not to be going home?” 

“ 1 think not, 1 am sure not. It is my one holiday, remember j 
the only one in a year. To-morrow 1 must work, and dream no* 
longer.” 

‘‘ And forget me?” 

“ And not forget you; but I am not going to be foolish and senti- 
mental after to-day. 1 must try to be stern towaid you.” 

“ why?” 

“ Only lest in being good to you 1 should be good to myself— to© 
good, 1 mean,”' he said, smiling. ‘‘But 1 am afraid, if 1 tiy, X 
shall not succeed.” 

“ You can not but succeed in anything you try, Mr. Manley.” 

‘‘Is it your intention to call me ‘ Mr. Manley ’ when we are 
married?” 

*‘ 1 don’t know,” she answered, coloring. 

“ 1 have a Christian name, you know.” 

‘‘ Oh,” she replied, energetically, “ I couldn't say Theophilus/ 5 ’ 

“ And is ‘ Phil ’ such a very difficult name tc say?” ne asked* 
the kind smile still on his face. ‘‘I was always called ‘ Phil y 
when I was a boy; 1 am now by my relations.” 

“ I think 1 could say ‘ Phil/ ” she answered, shyly. '* ‘ Phil y m 
such a nice name, 1 think; it is short and manly and easy to say/' 

“ Say it, then.” 

** Yes — ‘ Phil.’” 

*' That was a very long pause.” 

‘‘ Because 1 want to tell you something and 1 don’t like/* 

” What is it?” 

“ 1 have seen you nearly every day in church in your surplice,, 
and there you look so — 1 can’t find the right word — it isn’t graucf > 
and it isn’t imposing or handsome or lofty or intellectual, and yet 
it is a mixture of all these— in a sense, you know; and you seem 
so unapproachable, and yet here you are sitting down by me, just 
as if I were equal to you, and telling me you love me, and asking 
me to call you ‘ Phil.’ 1 can't understand it.” 

‘‘ Do you think any human being ever does thoroughly under- 
stand the mysterious changes that love works? 1 know that ever* 
yesterday 1 did not. But if I am to be considered grand, and iiQr 


76 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


posing, and intellectual, and unapproachable, and — handsome,’ 7 he 
laughed as he said the word, “ I shall have to be angry with you.” 

“ Do you dislike it, really, Mr. — Phil?” she asked, earnestly, and 
in some trepidation. 

”1 should dislike it very much from any other person, and 
consider it all nonsense; but, though I know 1 ought to dislike it 
in you, somehow 1— don’t.” 

“ But perhaps you will expect me to understand theology and 
church matters and so many things, and I don’t understand them 
—Phil.” 

“ I don’t think 1 want to marry a Mrs. Proudie,” he returned; 
“ 1 only want my wife to love me.” 

“ No one will be able to do that better than 1,” she said, ear- 
nestly, her heart shining in her eyes; 44 and 1 know that you are 
quite learned and intellectual, and theological and good, and kind 
enough tor us both.” 

44 This style of conversation 1 expressly forbid,” he said, with a 
smile. “ Seriously, Ethe.l, my darling, you must not put temptation 
in my way by overrating me. You will hinder, and not help 
me.” 

41 1 w ill try not, Phil ” — the word came so naturally now — ** but 
it will be so very difficult,” she said, earnestly. 

44 Then, being your clergyman and spiritual head, and knowing 
that you acknowledge the authority of the Church to the uttermost, 
this is the penance 1 shall impose on you.” 

44 1 will try not,” she replied, humbly, 44 but — but may 1 just tell 
you what 1 really do think of you perhaps once a year?” 

The vicar laughed. 

44 Perhaps you may— say, on Christmas-day.” 

On Christmas-day ensuing he thought of this speech in bitter- 
ness of spirit; she had told him what she thought of him before 
then. 

44 And now I think we really must be going,” he continued, 
44 tor it is getting very late. But it may be a long time before 1 
have so many hours with you again; we have been together all day 
my darling. Now, before we go on to the upper path, where at 
any moment we are liable to meet people, give nie my first kiss.” 
And as he kissed her he said again, 44 My well-beloved!” 

44 Have you ever been in love before, Phil?” she asked, 
anxiously. 

44 Well, yes,” he replied, smiling at her earnestness. 

‘‘With whom?” 


THE BACHELOK YICAK OF HEWFOETH. 77 

“ That will be penance hl'o. 2. 1 see you are jealous; you must 
try to curb your jealousy. (You see, 1 am not going to flatter you. 
1 was in love with a girl of ten when 1 was eleven years old — that 
was a very desperate affair; and I was in love when 1 was twenty 
with a widow of thirty-five; that also was desperate, but not so des- 
perate.” 

“ But you didn't like them as well as me, Phil?” she asked, ap- 
pealingly. 

“ It may seem a little ungracious, my darling,” he said, gravely; 
4 ‘ but 1 do, at this first beginning of our engagement, beg you will 
not be jealous. Do you not know how much 1 love you? do you 
not know me? If so, then, will there, can there, be any cauEe for 
jealousy? As to the past, 1 have never loved any one so much as 
you; and, for the future, 1 do not think you need fear. Trust me, 
Ethel; abcve all things, trust me.” 

“ 1 will, Phil, 1 trust you far before myself.” And then she 
turned to him with a wistful look on her face, ‘‘You will be pa- 
tient with me, Phil, won’t you? and you will try to teach me to be 
more worthy of you.” 

But to this question he gave no reply in words. 

“ it seems to me,” she continued, ‘‘ as if I had been engaged to 
you a long while. This morning I should not have ventured to say 
much, and now I feel as if 1 could tell you anything. Do you 
know that for some time past, until quite lately, I fancied you were 
in trouble of some sort.” 

‘‘1 was in trouble, much trouble, but 1 hope it is now over. 
How did you find it out?” 

1 read it in your face.” 

“ I must say,” he returned, with a smile, *‘ that it is rather hard 
on a clergyman that he can never— to use a very vulgar but graphic 
expression — keep himself to himself. Whether he be ill or well, 
joyful or sorrowful, he can never be in the shade; he is criticised 
and discussed and pulled to pieces— ” 

‘‘ And adored , Phil,” interposed Ethel. 

“ This will never do,” he said; but he looked very happy. ‘‘I 
must indeed be stern with you.” 

“ It is only to day; 1 won’t say it after to-day; really X won’t.” 

“ 1 think I should indeed be a tyrant if I did not allow you to 
say what you pleased to-day; but it must be only to-day, remem- 
ber.” 

They were now walking Ihrough fields of green corn, on the 


78 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


summit of the upper cliff. They looked down on the (own ancf 
the beautiful sea, now gorgeous vsith the setting sun. 

** How thankful 1 am to be alone sometimes — that is, alone with 
you,” he said, for the continual buzz of small talk, and attentions- 
of the ladies, and perpetual little calls on his time and services for 
trivial matters, at times tried him sorely. 

“ There is the dear old church,” he continued. “ Look, Ethel.” 

“ Have you not found it very uphill work sometimes; all your 
labor among the people?” 

“ Sometimes it has pressed on me very heavily; 1 have felt very 
discouraged. But 1 now see every reason for hoping that my wors^i 
difficulties are at an end. 1 think happiness is before me, Ethel—* 
great happiness. iNow, before l speak to your father, tell me if 
there be any objection on your part to our being married in Sep- 
tember — in three months’ time, that is.” 

“ I don’t knew,” she answered, shyly. 

“ Then 1 take it for granted there is none. 1 want my wife, 
Ethel; 1 am very lonely sometimes, in spite of my busy life.” 

She looked up at him, her eyes full of sympathy. 

“ Tour face grows on any one in a wonderful manner,” he said, 
looking at her critically. “ When i first saw you, 1 simply thought 
you were pretty, but now — ” 

“ Well—” 

” Iscw, 1 am not going to tell you what 1 think,” he answered,, 
laughing. 

In the lane outside Admiral Hatton’s garden they found Mr. 
Yorke, walking up and down, smoking, 

44 1 have been waiting for you,” he said. 

“ Have you been here long?” 

41 Oh, dear, no,” he replied coolly* “ only an hour and a half.” 

*' But why did you wait?” asked the vicar; “ it surely was not 
necessary.” 

44 The fact is, when 1 went home my wife told me that the ad- 
miral — you must excuse me, Miss Ethel— was in a great rage, and 
was as likely as not to pitch into the first person he came across; 
and as 1 knew you wouldn't put up with that, Manley, 1 thought 
it would save any unpleasantness, and look more respectable, if we 
all three went in together.” 

44 1 am much obliged to you,” said the vicar, 44 but 1 can not see 
any reason why Admiral Hatton should be annoyed with me; I 
told him 1 should bring Ethel home myself.” 

'‘There isn’t the smallest reason,” said Yorke, with a slight- 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH, 


79 


shrug; “but angry people, are not always reasonable, and when 
you do ask a man for his daughter— I really beg your pardon for 
assuming so much — ” (the vicar smiled) — “you may as well not 
give him any possible pretext for affronting you.” 

“ But what made my father angry?” asked Ethel. 

“ He was in high good-humor— so my wife tells me— at seeing 
the two young men return in uniform, and began to talk to them. 
During the conversation Miss Hatton and Captain Worsley slinped 
away and went into the garden. This annoyed Mr. Campbell so 
much that he forgot himself, and argued very rudely with your 
father, declaring that the navy was improved now in every possible 
way, and that the old school of naval officers, who were always 
saying that the navy was going to the dogs, were— he did not act- 
ually say so, but he implied it— fools. This put your father into 
a towering rage, during which my wife came away, and 1 thought 
1 might as well wait for you.” 

But Admiral Hatton had completely recovered his good-humor 
when they entered, and was deep in conversation with Captain 
Worsley on the subject of torpedoes. This ycung man then took 
his leave, saying, 

“ So awfully glad to have seen you all; so sorry 1 have to go to 
Plymouth to-morrow. But 1 shall be back again soon.” 

He gave a longing glance at Miss Hatton, who walked down the 
garden with him. 

“ 1 shall be so awfully delighted to return,” were his last words. 

The vicar’s interview with Admiral Hatton was very short, but 
eminently satisfactory. The admiral expressed himself much 
honored and gratified that a man bearing so high a character as Mr. 
Manley should wish to marry his daughter, and he only regretted 
that he had not a penny to give with her. 

The vicar averred that the honor was on his side, and that he had 
no wish for money, as a fortune in a wife was better than a fort- 
une with a wife. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

IMPENDING TROUBLE. 

There was a great failure in a London bank. This was caused 
by the daiing thefts of the manager, one Mr. Carter, who, before 
the directors’ very eyes, had abstracted bonds and securities of 
enormous value, replacing them by worthless papers. He had been 
so long in the bank, and was so fully trusted by the directors, that 


80 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE tfEWEORTH. 


they had failed to observe the ordinary and requisite precautions,, 
and he had taken the fullest advantage of their confidence. 

He had now disappeared, no one knew whither, and all efforts 
of the police to trace him being in vain, it was supposed he had 
gone abroad. His forgeries had teen so many, his embezzlements 
so gieat, that it was well known that, when taken, his sentence 
must be penal servitude for life. 

Mi. Leslie lost a very large sum of money in consequence, and 
was in high wrath. 

“ 1 hope if the scoundrel is taken, he will be hung. Hanging is 
too good for him,” he exclaimed. “ To say nothing of what / have 
lost, and others like me, look at the number of widows and orphans 
he has reduced to poverty!'’ 

But it may be questioned whether Mr. Leslie would have felt 
the wrongs of the widows and orphans quite so much, had it not 
been for his own! As it was, he was compelled to give up his 
large house and take a small one; indeed, he had to make many 
sacrifices of personal comfort which annoyed him greatly. 

“ I suppose,” said Mrs. Leslie tc the vicar, “ that ycu will not 
visit us often now.” 

“ Why should 1 not visit you?” he asked, gravely. 

“ 1 didn’t really mean it, Mr. Manley,” she rejoined. “ J know 
the size of our house could make no possible difference to you, and 
that you are far more disposed to visit the poor than the rich; but 
if you had a wife or relations 1 question whether they would look 
on it in the same light. 1 do not, of course, refer to Ethel; I mean 
if you were married before ”— for the news of the vicar’s engage- 
ment was known all over Hewforth. 

“ I do not see why it should make any difference either to my 
Wife or my relations.” 

Mrs. Leslie laughed. 

“Ho, but they would. It is wonderful how soon most clergy- 
men’s families find you out if you keep a carriage, and how long a 
time it takes them to ascertain that you are of the same birth with 
themselves if you do not live in a large house.” 

Unfortunately, the vicar could Dot controvert this statement; he 
held his peace. 

In spite of the deep haj-piness his engagement had given him, 
some cloud seemed again over him; there were lines of caie on his 
brow very often when alone. 

After speaking to Admiral Hatton on the evening of his engage- 
ment, he had gone into the church, as was his wont when deeply 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


31 


moved — for he always carried the key of the vestry with him — and, 
standing before his beautiful window, had found himself almost 
overwhelmed with the happiness that had befallen him. On every 
side blessings seemed to have sprung up around him. He found 
himelf repeating, “ For love is of God.” 

He had risen early the next morning and gone on the beach, had. 
watched the fishing-boats depart, and noted the glorious sunlight 
on the sea, the fre3h sparkle of the waves, the salt, delicious odor 
of the sea- weed lying in heaps on the shingle. 

Once more he leaped from rock to rock, and, looking at the scene 
before him, exclaimed with Milton, 

“ ‘ These are thy glorious works, Parent of good. 

Hail, universal Lord ! be bounteous still, to give us only good . 1 ” 

It certainly was not the most direct way home, but some impulse 
made him return by Admiral Hatton’s house. There, in the garden, 
were the two girls enjoying the warm sunshine betore breakfast. 

Miss Hatton came forward and opened the gate, saying, 

‘‘lam so very glad, Mr. Manley, about you and Ethel,” to 
which he warmly responded. 

** Who is going to give me a rose?” he asked. 

Ethel gathered one. 

“ Pin it in his button-hole, Ethel,” said her sister. 

" Clergymen don’t wear button-holes,” returned Ethel, her eyes 
shining. 

“ Then 1 will be the exception,” said the vicar, “ for 1 will wear 
your rose now.” 

Miss Hatton duly retired while a little private conversation took 
place. 

“ 1 must go now,” he said, after a few minutes. 

“Very well,” said Ethel. 

He went out of the gate, and then she called him back. 

“ What is it?” 

" Another time, when a brother clergyman disappoints you, you 
need not apologize so humbly to the congregation as you did last 
Wednesday. You know they all prefer you to any stranger,” she 
said, with a laugh. 

He shook his head and went away. 

“ Upon my word,” said Miss Hatton, “ your intimacy must have 
made enormous strides since yesterday! How you could venture 
to say that, 1 don’t know; 1 shouldn’t, as it was about church ar- 
rangements.” 


S2 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

“ 1 could venture to say anything to him now/' returned Ethel, 
in the tull consciousness of her power. 

So a week had passed most joyously; so happily that the vicar 
Began actually to be afraid of the absorbing passion that love was 
becoming to him, and to fight, against it as a temptation. And then 
had come this trouble fiom outside which tempered his great glad- 
ness, and told him how powerless we are to clip the wings of hap- 
piness. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE SPIRE. 

A meeting for the purpose of raising the spire fund was now 
announced. 

Notwithstanding his numerous engagements, the vicar had never 
lost sight of this object, and had sounded some of the richer mem- 
bers of his congregation as to what they felt inclined to contribute. 
Ho now felt justified in calling a meeting, to be held at the Town 
Hall. 

He did not purpose making this sectarian. He had always, as 
far as possible, worked most amicably with the Disenting ministers, 
and shown them much kindness; and on this occasion, in addition 
to visiting the mayor and the lord of the manor, Lord Hilton, he 
had begged the ministers of other denominations to support him. 
The work was to some extent a public one, as the spire would be- 
come so prominent a sea-mark, also a very great ornament to the 
entire neighborhood. Under these circumstances he did not feel 
that the entire cost, which was considerable, should be home alone 
j by his congregation. It was his wish also to transfer the bell of 
•: the clock, supplying one of greater power that could be heard at 
sea, and to make the clock chime the half-hours and quarters. 
This, he thought, could be done. He anxiously desired a peal of 
bells, which he knew would greatly add to the glory he would feel 
in the spire, but this he did not allow himself to consider possible 
to obtain. 

He constantly visited Mr. and Mrs. Yorke, with the former of 
whom he had long conversations respecting his schemes. Now, 
Mr. Yorke, being the son of a canon and having been brought up 
in a clerical element, could give his opinion with a certain amount 
of authority, although he made no professions as to church work. 
It was by his advice that Captain Vincent and Mr. Fortescue were 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 83 

invited to the meeting. “ They are both so wealthy that they can 
help largely it they please,” said Mr. Yorke. 

“Bui,” replied the vicar, ‘‘though I do earnestly desiie to sei> 
the spire on the tower, 1 do not wish to make it an occasion of beg- 
ging— of passing round the hat to rich men. 1 want the work to 
be done spontaneously, to be a worthy offering. 1 can not think it 
either right or advisable in such a matter as this to ask people to 
give from motives of private friendship.” 

“ I respect your scruples, Phil, but i do not share them,” said 
J\Ir. Yorke, who sometimes called his friend by his Christian name, 
they having been Westminster boys together. ‘‘Do you want 
Vincent and Fortescue down here, or do you not?” 

“ 1 shall be very glad to see them. 1 consider Captain Vincent 
a most proper person to be present, being so prominent a man 
among us. All 1 wish you to understand is, that I am not going, 
to ask them to contribute. If they offer to do so out of a genuine 
feeling of interest, and a wish to serve us, that is quite another 
affair.” 

“ Pride, my dear Manley; all pride,” returned Mr. Yorke, who. 
though most genial, was at heart a very proud man in some re- 
spects. 

T he vicar smiled. 

*‘Ko, it isn’t pride; you don’t understand.” 

“ 1 dare say not.” 

The two men were walking up and down the vicar's garden/ 
Ethel and her sister went by. They saw them across the road. 

“ That is a very nice girl — Ethel, 1 mean,” said Mr. Yorke; 
“ and 1 wish you joy, with all my heart, Phil. They are both nice 
girls.” 

The vicar watched until they were out of sight. 

“ 1 trust our marriage will not have to be postponed,” he sain 
with a sigh. ” You will think me foolish, 1 dare say, \ r orke; bui. 
1 tell you 1 am actually counting each day as it goes by.” 

“ 1 do not think you at all foolish, Phil,” replied Mr. Yorke, 
kindly. “ I remember how impatient 1 was; if you are only as 
happy as I am, you wilt be a very happy man. But if you take 
my advice, you will net put off your marriage on any considera- 
tion; in my opinion, it would be most unadvisable.” 

“ But,” said the vicar, “ in common honesty, ought 1 to many 
her without telling her all? and you know I can not tell her. My 
most solemn word has been passed.” 


$4 


THE ' BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


Now Yorke was a man of scrupulous honor. He considered a 
moment. 

“ ^ere she to know all the circumstances, do you think she 
would have the smallest hesitation in marrying you?” he asked. 

“ I do not think she would,” replied the vicar, readily, remem- 
bering the many, many speeches, declaring her great love that she 
had made since her engagement. 

“ If you are sure on that point, why hesitate?” said Yorke. 
'** Marry her; the fault is none of yours.” 

And then ensued some very earnest conversation. 


CHAPTER XV. 

THE SPIRE MEETING. 

The large Town Hall was well filled on the occasion of the 
meeting. The audience began to wax impatient when eight 
o’clock struck. Five minutes later Lord Hilton appeared at the 
end of the rcom, followed by the mayor, Captain Vincent, the vic- 
ar, the curate, the church-wardens, various members of import- 
ance in the congregation, several brother clergymen, and dissenting 
ministers. These all took their places on the platform. Mr. 
Fortescue and Mr. Yorke were among the audience, with their 
wives. 

Mrs. Fortescue had requested as a special favor that her husband 
would not go on the platform, where he had been offered a place. 

‘‘ You will look so dreadfully amused and sarcastic, Arthur, if 
any one should drop his h’s or speak in bad grammar.” 

” It is rather hard that 1 should not be amused, 1 think,” he had 
responded, lazily. “As a rule, these meetings are the reverse of 
amusing. I always take care to stroke my mustache when any 
specially Balient point is brought to my notice; but even should 1 
omit tc do so, I warrant you they will forgive me any amount of 
smiles it 1 hand them over a check for thirty pounds, which is 
what 1 purpose doing.” 

“lam not at ail sure that the vicar would condone your offeuses, 
if you gave a hundred pounds, dear. He would refuse it on the 
spot if he thought you were turning anything into ridicule.” 

Mr. Fortescue shrugged his shoulders and smiled. 

‘‘ Have it your own way, Maud; deprive me of the seat where, 
perhaps, 1 might get a little fresh air.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF KEWFORTH. 


85 


Oh, no, Arthur, if that is the reason/' Mrs. Fortescue began 
earnestly; but her husband laughed, and said nothing should now 
prevent him from sitting among the audience. 

Mr. Yorke had already promised twenty-five pounds; he was by 
no means so rich as his two friends. 

“ Twenty-five will buy you a seat on the platform, Yorke/’ 

“ 1 tmh you wouldn’t, Mr. Foitescue/’ said Mrs. Vincent, who 
was sitting with Mrs. Yorke and Mrs. Fortescue. “You are laugh- 
ing at everything. It is too bad when Mr. Manley is sc earnest 
about it; 1 do admire him so much.’’ 

“ 1 should not give thirty pounds to an object 1 lidiculed/' re- 
turned Mr. Fortescue, more gravejy; “and 1 have seen quite 
enough of Mr. Manley to have thoroughly made up rnv mind about 
him.’’ 

The Vincents and Fortescues had driven in from Orton that 
afternoon, and dined early with the Yorkes. They were to sleep 
at the hotel. The vicar had also been invited to dinner, but had 
declined. 

Lord Hilton, who presided, was the first to address the meeting. 
He was a fine old man, vigorous and hearty, and somewhat old- 
fashioned in speech and manner. He told the people that he had 
laid the foundation-stone of the church a very gieat many years 
ago, when he was a young mam How, in the first instance, New- 
forth being then simply a fishing-yillage, the chancel only had 
been built; but, he said, the inhabitants, though few and by no 
means rich, had been generous, and had freely given their utmost, 
so that, by degrees— the original plan oi the church being strictly 
adhered to— the nave and side chapels had been added. He remem- 
bered, he said, being called there early one morning, when the 
chancel only was built, to see what could be done, as the high arch 
was giving way, it was feared. He himself ascended the ladders, 
and assisted in throwing down some tons of stone, after which the 
arch was temporarily shored up, and afterward permanently 
strengthened. He detailed the efforts of the increasing inhabitants 
to build the tower, and spoke of their earnest wish to provide a 
spire. And then, he said, a period of deadness seemed to have 
fallen on the inhabitants, he would not say why oi wherefore; but 
now, owing to the unceasing efforts of their good vicar, of whose 
good works he could not speak in sufficient praise (the vicar looked 
excessively uncomfortable), this deadness had been removed, and 
the parish was more full of life and zeal and earnestness than al- 
most any other of his acquaintance. He begged, in conclusion, to 


86 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


assure them of his hearty support and good-will, to inform them 
how pleased he was to see the meeting so largely attended, and to 
he supported on the platform by representatives of so many differ- 
ent bodies. Lord Hilton sat down amid loud applause. 

The vicar then addressed the meeting in few and well-chosen 
words. After thanking the chairman tor his kind words, he said 
he thought it his duty to tell those present that Lord Hilton had 
given the ground on which the church was built, and that he had 
now put down on the table a check for one hundred pounds. He 
then added a few words relative to the important sea-mark the 
spire would become, and some others of pleasure at the repre- 
sentative character of the meeting. Loud applause followed. 

Captain Vincent then proposed the first resolution. ’* That tho 
spire be built without further delay,” which was duly seconded 
and supported. 

“ How well Rupert speaks,” said Mrs. Vincent, who considered 
her husband the wonder of the age. “ All he says is so clear and 
so well put.” 

The business of the meeting then went forward. 

“ It seems to me,” said Mr. Fortescue, that this meeting is 
nothing less than a mutual admiration society. Every one admires 
everything and everybody, and praises everything and agrees to 
everything. I have not heard one dissentient voice. It would add 
vastly to the interest if some one would get up and make himself 
obnoxious. Should no one else come forward I really think I 
must.” 

He had, in the meantime, since hearing the statistics, and being 
made aware of the good that was being done and was still to do m. 
the parish, quietly altered his check into one for sixty pounds; tori' 
pens and ink were handy. 

But when the mayor began to speak, Mr. Fortescue promised 
himself some real amusement, and laughed outright when, in speak- 
ing of the work going forward, he invariably observed, “ The vicar 
and me ” did this or that. 

“ I was not aware that Mr. Manley had an additional curate in 
the mayor,” he said, gravely. 

“ The mayor hasn’t done a single thing,” said Mrs. Vorke. 
“ The only point in his favor is that he has abstained from being 
actively disagreeable.” 

‘‘There is not an h in his composition,” said Mr. Fortescue; 
“ and some of the Newforth ministers are decidedly wanting in 
final g’s.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTII. 


87 


“ But tliey are all so earnest and hearty,” said Mrs. Vincent, 
'warmly. “ 1 am sure it quite does me good to hear them! Com- 
pare them with London society, our society, and see how immeas- 
urably they are superior to us in what is good.” 

1 protest against this, Mrs. Vincent; 1 protest warmly; 1 am 
satisfied with my society, they are satisfied with their society. Why 
then quarrel? 1 like final g’s ; they do not care about them. 4 Live 
and let live,’ say 1; thereloie 1 do not see why comparisons— hu- 
miliating to me— should be instituted. 1 never professed to be 
anything but a very inferior individual.” 

“ Oh, Arthur!” from Mrs. Fortescue. 

“ Mr. Rowen has actually been induced to be on the platform,” 
said Mrs. Yorke. 44 1 do wish he were not so dreadfully melan- 
choly. But he has taken care to sit behind Mr. Leslie, so that he 
can not be seen.” 

44 How well Mr. Manley looks!” said Mrs. Vircent; 44 he has 
such a fresh, bright face.” 

44 Looks as if he had just come from taking a header?” said Mr. 
Fortescue. 44 Yes, 1 think he does. Where is his young lady?” 

44 Over there,” said Mrs. Yorke, pointing to a group of the Hat- 
ton family and Mrs. Leslie. 

4 She is a very pretty girl,” said Mr. Fortescue. 

44 And a very nice girl,” remarked Mr. Yorke. 

The meeting closed amid expressions of loud applause and satis- 
faction, but not before Mr. Leslie, in a very good and humorous 
speech, had informed the audience that he had no doubt they 
should soon raise the money by small subscriptions, as one little 
girl had given a penny, and another fourpence; to which the vicar 
replied that he was delighted to hear it, and he should be quite as 
proud of the pence of children and of the poor as of the largest sub- 
scriptions of the rich.” 

At the entrance door was a bock, in which persons present might 
inscribe their names and promises of subscriptions. 

Captain Vincent w r as on the point of writing down his name for 
cne hundred pounds when his wife checked him and beckoned to 
him to speak to her apart. 

‘‘Rupert, dear,” she said, earnestly, 44 don't write down your 
name until you hear what 1 should like to do.” 

Mrs, Vincent had been strangely moved during the meeting when 
she had heard of the poor, neglected, untidy parish church, and 
then of the successful efforts to restore it to beauty and order. She 
thought of their own well-kept church, and of the abundant means 


88 . 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


always forthcoming to keep it in repair. She determined that she 
would make an effort to help the Vicar of New forth, whom she 
was beginning to like and respect so much. She always took an 
extreme interest in church matters, owing to the late rector of Or- 
ton having been her dearest friend until his death. 

“ What would you like tc do?” asked her husband. 

Now, Mrs. Vincent had been a wealthy heiress before her mar- 
riage; but she had given all her money absolutely to her husband. 

“ What would a peal of bells cost?” 

He considered a moment. 

“Perhaps a thousand pounds; bat 1 really don’t know. Ask 
Mr. Manley.” 

“ The Newforth people can raise the spire, but they can't get 
the peal of bells. May 1 have seme money to do what I like with, 
dear— five hundred po'unds, say; and 1 will pay the rest out of my 
allowance.” 

Her husband laughed. 

“ We have now been mairied some years, my child,” he said — for 
he invariably addressed his wife thus when pleased — “ and during 
all that time you have never asked me for any large sum of money, 
although it was your money. You shall have a thousand pounds 
•at once: it is only taking what is your own. Your allowance, in- 
deed! Don’t let me hear anything so ridiculous.” 

“You are very good, Rupert. Perhaps now you will not care to 
give to the spire fund.” 

“ 1 shall not give so much as X should otherwise have done; X 
will put down my name for twenty pounds.” 

“ But there is another difficulty,” said his wife. “ Mr. Manley 
may not choose to accept our gift.” 

“ He can but decline it,” returned Captain Vincent; ** but 1 do 
not think he will.” 

CHAPTER XVI. 

A HANDSOME PIIESENT. 

The next morning the vicar showed Mrs. Vincent the church and 
the window. The rest of the party had suggested accompanying 
her, but she had asked to be alone, in order that she might speak to 
Mr. Manley by herself. 

“ 1 shall have to look after you, if this goes on,” said her hus- 
band, laughing. 

“ My dear Vincent,” said Mr. Foilescue, “ I will back your and 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 89 

nay attractions against those ot any number of vicars, let our wives 
see as many of them as they please.” 

“You say so because Mrs. Foitescue’s tastes do not run in the 
direction of vicars,” returned Captain Vincent. “ .Now, with my 
wife it is quite another matter.” 

“ Rupert!” said Mrs. Vincent. “ 1 wish you wouldn’t.” 

Re laughed. 

“Go your own way, my cnild; we won’t disturb your private 
conference. It is time to start now; he said he would be at the 
church by eleven. We might go and see the Vorkes, and drop you 
on our way.” 

The vicar, as usual, was punctual to a moment. As the clock 
struck eleven, he appeared and opened the doors. 

After due admiration had been bestowed on the window, Mrs. 
Vincent turned to him a little nervously, lor she was doubtful as to 
the manner in which her offer would be received. 

“ Have you any hope of getting a peal of bells?” she asked. 

“ 1 can not say 1 have,” he replied, cheerfully; “ but I like to 
hope.” 

“But you will get the spire for yourselves.” 

“ Oh, yes; every one really is so very kind, and seems inclined to 
make sacrifices so willingly. The original plans of the architect are 
in our possession, and one of the gentlemen of my congregation, 
who is a most skillful architect, has promised to carry Ihem out free 
of cost as to architect’s fees, and my kind church-warden, Mr. Leslie, 
has told me he will conduct any law business in connection with the 
work free of charge.” For, owing to his recent losses, Mr. Leslie 
could not give much in money. 

“ Mr. Manley,” said Mrs. Vincent, with a very sweet smile, 
“ are you one of those people who feel proud and offended at being 
■offered anything — although that thing may be one on which they 
have set their heart?” 

“ 1 trust that is not your estimate of my character,” he returned, 
kindly. “ 1 think it is very often difficult to receive gifts grace- 
fully, more so than to make them; tut it is a most ungracious act 
not to accept a kind present in the spirit in which it is offered.” 

“ I am so glad,” she replied, joyfully, “ because 1 want to make 
you a present — that is to say, your church.” 

“ You are very kind, what is it?” 

“ The peal of bells.” 

Ndw, the magnitude of this present at first almost startled the 
vicar; he had been expecting an offer of a new altar cloth or 


90 


THE BACHELOR ’ VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


something of that soit. He turned the matter rapidly over in hfe 
mind, and decided that it would be both unwise and ungracious 
to refuse what would be not only the glory of his heart, but the 
pride of the whole parish. 

“ I accept your munificent offer most gratefully,” he said,, 
warmly; “ it is indeed unexpected. It is very good of you.” 

“ It is an honor to contribute toward a church, Mr. Manley.” 

“ X think so, but 1 do not find my views universal, Mrs. Vin- 
cent.” 

Thank you so very much for. letting me give the peal.” 

He smiled, 

“ The thanks should come from me and my people, I think.” 

“ Oh, but 1 was so afraid you would have made objections, and 
not accepted it until I felt utterly crushed by my presumption in 
offering it, which would have entirely destroyed my pleasure in 
making the gift.” 

” That would have been very wrong on my part, Mrs. Vincent. 

1 do not think 1 could be guilty of such ingratitude; for such con- 
duct would in reality proceed from ingratitude, though veiled by 
the name of pride. Far better, I think, to refuse a gift at once 
than receive it so.” 

And then, in a few gracious words, Mrs. Vincent congratulated 
Mr. Manley on his engagement, which, she said, she had quite 
foreseen when they were at Seafort that day; and that she would 
be very pleased if he cculd spare the time to call with her now on 
Miss Ethel, in order that she might invite her and her sister to visit 
them at Templemore, and she hoped the vicar would accompany 
them. 

blow, though, Mrs. Vincent thought Ethel Hatton a nice enough 
girl, she certainly would not have made this proposal except out: 
of compliment to Mr. Manley, for whom she had already con- 
ceived a great liking and respect. 

He replied that he would make time, and if she did not object to 
wait one moment on their road to Admiral Hatton’s, while he 
called at Mr. Rowen’s, he should then be enabled to be free for 
another hour. 

“ Is every hour of your day occupied, Mr. Manley?” 

“ Nearly every hour.” 

*' That is rather hard.” 

*' 1 like it.” he replied, and changed the subject. 

Mr. Rowen came to the door himself, and Mrs. Vincent begged 
to be introduced, and smiled so brightly at him that even the melan- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


91 


«holy curate succumbed to her influence, and asked if he should 
show her the church — an offer he had never made to any one since 
he had been in Newforth. 

“ Thank you so much,” said Mrs. Vincent; *' and 1 should have 
been delighted , but Mr. Manley has been so kind as to show it to 
me already.” 

Mr. Rowen looked uneasy. 

'* That’s right , Rowen,” said the vicar, cheerfully. “ 1 am glad 
you don’t mind showing the church; next time you shall do so in- 
stead of me.” 

This speech restored the curate’s equanimity; for he stood a little 
In awe of Mr. Manley. 

The Hatton girls were both at home. Mrs. Vincent made known 
her request. 

“ And you must come,” she continued, ” while this tine weather 
lasts. I think we shall find quite enough to interest you in the 
grounds and the town for two oi three days.” 

‘‘We shall be delighted to come,” said Miss Hatton; “ and it is 
extremely kind of you to ask us.” 

'* Shall 1 ask Mr. Campbell to meet you?” 

‘‘No,” answered the girl, with decision; ‘‘1 would rather not. 
I haven’t seen him since that day at Seafort, when he behaved sc 
badly.” 

For Mr. Campbell had thought it advisable to remain away for a 
little while, knowing also that Captain Worsley was safely cut of 
the way at Plymouth. 

Mrs. Vincent then tcok her leave. The vicar said he would take 
tier to the hotel. 

** Indeed you shall not,” she exclaimed, with energy. “ Sooner 
than that,” she added, with a smile, “ 1 would call on Mr. Rowen, 
.and ask him to escort me.” 

The girls laughed. 

‘‘You worked Mr. Rowen up to making a most marvelous 
effort this morning, Mrs. Vincent,” said the vicar, smiling; “ but 
1 think that even you would not be able to persuade him to go to 
your hotel and face your husband. As you will not allow me to 
accompany you, I must submit.” 

‘‘ How nice she is!” said Mrs. Hatton, after Mrs. Vincent left. 

“ She is,” replied the vicar. ‘‘ She is very pretty, but it is her 
expression tha; 1 admire so much; for 1 think much more of ex- 
pression than feature. It is my theory that when any one is past 


92 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


his first youth, he makes his own face; or, if a woman, that she 
does.” 

“ How so?” asked Ethel. 

“ The ideas of the mind communicate themselves to the facial 
lineaments. This is more especially the case with regard to the 
mouth. An habitually discontented, querulous mind causes the 
corners of the mouth to draw down; a smiling, happy disposition, 
has the reverse effect. A determined person closes his mouth in 
such a manner that in time his mouth alters; and so on— to say 
nothing of the eyes and other features, to all of which expression is 
distinctly communicable.” 

“ 1 never thought of that,” said Ethel. 

“ Show me a man’s face, and I shall be surprised if I can not tell 
you what manner ol man he is,” said the vicar. 

‘‘We are not all so clever as you,” said Miss Hatton, with a 
laugh. “ But, talking of ability, what an extraordinary thing it is 
that Mr. Rowen can not preach better after being ordained so long; 
and he does not want for sense either.” 

‘‘ 1 would rather not hear Mr. Rowen ciiticised,” said the vicar; 
“ his good work speaks for him more than his sermons.”' 

" But you must allow he is frightfully obscure; and when he is 
most obscure, he turns to the congregation and says, ‘ You all 
know what 1 mean,’ Mr. Leslie says he often feels inclined to get 
up and say, ‘ I haven’t the faintest notion what you mean, nor has* 
any one else.” 

‘‘ Don’t, Gertrude,” said Ethel. 

“I’ll go now,” relurned Miss Hatton, ‘‘and then I can’t be 
scolded. Although it would be in the nature of a new experience 
to hear you scold any one, Mr. Manley.” 

“ If X don’t actually scold, 1 can be very stern when 1 like,” said 
the vicar; adding, as Miss Hatton went away, “ Don’t you think, 
so, Ethel?” 

She laughed. 

” Well, Phil, if I were you, 1 wouldn’t propound that theory 
about expression quite so openly.” 

‘‘ And why not?” 

*‘ People might say that conceit originated it.” 

‘‘ Conceit?” he repeated. 

You see when any one— not you, of course— but when any one- 
has a beautiful expression himself— Wbat are you shaking your 
head at me for? I didn’t say you had.” 

He stopped her with a kiss. 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEW FORTH. 


93 


“ 1 am not half stern enough with you, 1 see. What did you 
promise me?” 

“ 1 have kept my word, Phil; 1 have really. But I wish it was 
Christmas, and then 1 could tell you what 1 think of you. Couldn’t 
we,” looking up into his face, “couldn’t we make it Christmas 
day, just for once?” 

“Ethel, my darling,” he said, seriously, “1 wish you knew 
me as I know myself. Who knows but when Christmas-day comes 
—and we shall then be married I hope— you will then have a very 
different tale to tell me.” 

" It is impossible, Phil,” she replied, earnestly; ''nothing . could 
destroy my faith in you.” 

“ Your faith may, perhaps, be tested before long,” he said, 
gravely. 

“ My faith will stand any test. 1 not only love you, but 1 be- 
lieve in you with all my heart; you know 1 do, Phil.” 

He took her in his arms, and bade her farewell with something 
of solemnity; he lingered over the parting, and seemed as if he 
could not bear to let her go. 

“ I love you too much, Ethel,” he said; “ I know I love you too 
much.” 

It was well that they could not foresee that this was their last 
unclouded meeting for many a long day. 

** God bless you, my darling!” he said as he went out; “ and I 
pray you may retain your trust in me.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE STRANGE WOMAN. 

Arrangements for commencing the spire at once were made. 
Before a few weeks had elapsed the estimates had been sent in, 
and some of the scaffolding erected. 

The vicar watched the work with the greatest interest, and was 
constantly at the church; but, in spite of this interest, he was look- 
ing very troubled; he seemed to carry about some care with him. 

About this time a very pretty woman was occasionally seen in 
Hewforth. She was an exceedingly pretty young woman with a 
clever face, and dark hair and eyes. Her dress was that of a work- 
ing woman; she wore a plainly made gown of black material, a 
quiet straw bonnet, and a cloak almost Quakerish in its cut. She 


94 


THE BACHELOR Y1CAR OF NEWFORTH. 


•usually came to Newforth in the early morning, made her purchases 
•at the market, and disappeared. 

Out of idle curiosity, one day, young Mr. Allen thought he 
would trace her. He followed her to Fisherman’s Cove, and saw 
her enter the house of Mrs. Stevens. 

“ Such a lark!” he said to his sister. “ There is some one here 
who beats all you girls hollow— except Ethel, of course.” 

” 'Who is she?” asked Miss Allen. 

Her brother detailed his adventure. 

”1 wonder you took the trouble to follow a common woman 
about,” said Miss Allen, contemptuously; “it was very wrong of 
you.” 

“ It is my belief she is not a common woman,” he replied. “ She 
wore no gloves, hut her hands were white and delicate. 1 saw she 
had on a wedding-ring.” 

Miss Allen smiled rather disagreeably. 

“You really ought to have some occupation found for you, Ed- 
ward; you idle away all your time, and will soon get into mischief. 
Pray don’t see any more of the woman.” 

But young Mr. Allen’s interest had been greatly excited by the 
stranger’s face. He watched at the window the next market-day 
until she appeared; then, taking up his hat, he followed hei at a 
respectful distance. 

She bought some fruit, some gravy beef, and a few other articles; 
then, leaving the market, entered a chemist’s shop, and remained 
there some time. 

Still Mr. Allen lingered, he scarcely knew why. 

She placed her purchases in a large basket she carried on her 
arm, and commenced her walk home along the straight, dusty high 
road. It was very hot— very hot, indeed; the sun was scorching, 
the dust flying in showers. Her black dress looked, at length, as 
if it had been powdered. 

Young Mr. Allen, sauntering lazily along in his cool suit of 
light giay, a large umbrella held over his head, became conscious 
that he did not like to see this woman toiling along in front of him, 
lie must offer to help her. Many and many a poor, tired old woman 
had passed him already, but no idea of assisting them had entered 
his mind. He quickened his pace and overtook her. 

“ You look tired,” he said, kindly; “let me carry your basket 
for you.” 

She was on the point of r. fusing proudly, and then it seemed to 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 95 

occur to hei that a working-woman might well accept such assist- 
ance. “ You are very kind/' she replied, and gave it to him. 

He placed it gallantly on his arm. It was very heavy, and made 
him feel wotully Warm. 

A young lady he knew met him at this moment. He raised his 
hat, feeling inclined to throw the basket into the road. 

“You had better give it back to me,” said the stranger; “ it is 
not pleasant for a young man like you to be met by your friends 
carrying a basket, and in company with a woman of my class.” 

But these words only confirmed Mr. Allen in his opinion that 
she was a lady. “ No working-woman has such a voice and man- 
ner,” he said to himself, and then something in her tone seemed 
familiar to him, and he thought he must have met her before, per- 
haps differently dressed and under other circumstances. 

“ 1 like to carry your basket,” he said, stoutly. “ Where do you 
live?” 

She hesitated a moment, then answered, quietly, “lam lodging 
at Fisherman’s Cove with my husband. My husband is an invalid.” 

The heat was very great, the two-mile walk seemed greatly to 
fatigue her. The approach to Fisherman’s Cove from the road was 
by a very narrow lane leading to the cliffs above the beach. A 
stile separated the lane from the road. 

Here she stopped saying, “ 1 thank you very much;” and would 
have taken the basket from his hands. But he did not wish to go* 

“ Let me carry it down to the beach for you,” he said. 

“No, thank you, sir.” 

“ 1 see a cow coming up the lane; it may run at you. Let me 
see you safely past her, at all events,” urged the young man. 

The woman shuddered. 

“I am very much afraid of cows,” she said; “ I have lived in- 
London so much.” And then she checked herself, as if she had 
said too much. 

The lane was winding, trees branched oveihead. On one side 
were rocky mounds; on the other, fields. 

“ How pretty it is,” she exclaimed, “ and how glad 1 am to be- 
in the shade once more.” 

Her flushed cheeks made her eyes shine brilliantly. Mr. Allen 
decided that his morning’s work had not been thrown away. 

“ The sea looks jolly, doesn’t it?” he said. “ I shall go for a row 
when 1 get back. Perhaps 1 could get one of the fishermen at the 
Cove to take me round.” 


96 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTH. 

“ 1 dare say you could, sir,” she replied, in somewhat measured 
tones; ‘‘ it will save you a long, hot walk.” 

They ■were now at the edge ot the dills; the path began to slope 
and wind down the face of them. 

“ You must not accompany me further,” she said, with decis- 
ion. *' I should prefer going on to the beach alone. 1 thank you 
very much.” 

“ There might be another cow,” he said, knowing that the path 
was far too steep for such an animal to walk on. and that the cow 
they had already passed had been the most quiet of her kind. 

”1 prefer to go alone,” she answered, shortly. 

He raised his hat, saying, “Good-morning.” 

She turned to him. 

“ You should not take oft your hat to a working-woman ; it is not 
customary. You will oblige me very much by not doing so should 
you meet me again; indeed, 1 would rather that you did not recog- 
nize me at all.” 

“But why?” he asked. “1 thought it -was allowable— to a 
working- woman,” he added, with emphasis. 

“ Because— ” she hesitated, “you are too courteous; it is not 
customary in our class.” 

“ A working-woman!” he repeated, “ she is no more a working- 
woman than 1 am.” 

He threw himself on the short, grass at the edge of the cliff, and 
watched her until she reached the beach. 

The sea was so brilliant with sunlight that he could scarcely rest 
his eyes on it. On the beach he saw some ot the boats drawn up, 
the fishermen in their bright jerseys and caps were cutting up 
dog-fish tor bait. A man in a white linen coat and ccrdutoy trou- 
pers was lying on the beach watching them. Mr. Allen could not 
see his face; he wore a shady felt hat, well pulled over his brows, 
but the light glanced in such a way as to make the young man 
think he wore spectacles. The woman deposited her basket with- 
in the most sheltered ot the cottages, Mrs. Stevens’s, and then went 
on to the beach. She walked up to the man lying down, and spoke 
to him, turning her back toward the cliffs. A few moments after- 
ward Mr. Allen saw some one walking quickly along the beach 
who had come from Newforth. He recognized the vicar. The 
latter nodded a greeting to the fishermen at work, and spoke to 
the man and the woman. The man rose, all three w r ent to Mrs. 
Stevens’s house, and, going in, shut the door. Mr. Allen got up 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE NEWFORTH. 97 

and stretched himself lazily. Why or wherefore he did not know, 
hut be resolved to walk home. 

“ They might not vant me hanging about here,” he said, though 
he could give no reason for such a speech; “ tut, oh, how glad 1 
should have been of a boat!” 

He walked home slowly, grumbling at the heat and dust. On 
his arrival he detailed the whole account to his mother, who, dis- 
agreeable woman as she was, thought her son could do no wrong. 

‘‘What a long story about nothing!” said his sister. “You 
could have told it in one minute. You met a workman’s pretty 
wife, and were soft enough to be imposed on by her; and the vicar 
■’visited them, as he does every one all over the place.” 

Young Allen began to whistle a tune. 

‘‘Don’t be so rude to your brother, Mary,” said Mrs. Allen. 
“ 1 am interested in all he tells me.” 

“ You always did believe your goose was a swan,” returned her 
daughter, provokingly. 

CHAPTER XY111. 

“that pretty woman.” 

The Misses Hatton paid their visit to Templemore, but the vicar 
did not accompany them. He was extremely sorry, he said, but 
he could not possibly leave Newforth, even for a day. So Ethel 
departed', somewhat vexed. 

On her return he at. once sought her, only to be received with 
marked coolness. Now, even from those he loved best, the vicar 
was not a man to put up with any undeserved slight; he showed 
his rfense of displeasure by staying away for an entile week. 

But it was not alone on, account of Ethel’s coldness that he re- 
mained away. He was undergoing great anxiety, apart from his 
parish woik, and, in addition, business of a most pressing nature 
called for a great amount of his time. 

And now arose, no one knew why or wherefore, vague rumors 
-concerning Mr. Manley —that he was tco often at Fisherman’s 
Cove; that he had been seen walking with some woman in the 
evening; that, when apparently proceeding in haste to some desti- 
nation, it was on business entirely unconnected with his parish 
work, and belter left alone. 

Mr. Allen had often turned his steps in the direction of the Cove, 
but had met with no reward for his trouble. Going along the 

4 


98 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


high-road one evening, when it was dusk, he had been overtaken 
by the vicar, who passed without recognizing him. Mr. Allen saw 
that he took the lane leading to the Cove, and when Mr. Allen had 
gained the cliffs, and remained theie some hour and a half, until 
it was quite dark, he saw Mr. Manley leave Mrs. Stevens’s cottage. 
The light from within revealed that the stranger-lodger was with 
him, and that the vicar was talking earnestly to her at the door. 

A story never loses in repeating. Vague hints began to reach 
Ethel. On her part she was seriously concerned at Mr. Manley’s 
piolonged absence; for although she had seen him in church, he 
had made no attempt to speak to her. Feeling that she had been 
in fault, she wrote and asked him to come and see her. He com- 
plied with her request within an hour. To him, also, it had been 
a great trouble not to see her; but, alas! within that hour another 
visitoi had been before him. 

“ The vicar has been to the Cove again, mother,” Mr. Allen had 
said a short time previously. 

“ And why should he not; and why should you be a spy cn the 
vicar?” his sister had retorted, sharply. 

‘‘And why shouldn’t your brother go there as well as the vicar, 
without his being a spy?” returned Mrs. Allen, sharply. 

‘‘ Come,” said that young man, good-temperedly, “ we needn’t 
quarrel over it. 1 am the last one to be a spy. I happened to be 
passing, and I saw him— that’s all. Don’t make such a row about 
it.” 

“ People are beginning to say all kinds of things,” replied his 
mother. “ Some one ought to tell that unfortunate Ethel. It is- 
quite some one’s duty.” 

‘‘Take my advice, and don’t you be that some one,” said her 
son; ‘‘you will only put your foot into it. And, after all. what 
do we know that is any harm?” 

“It isn’t what we know; it’s what we hear.” 

“ That is ridiculous,” said Mary Allen, with warmth. “ People- 
ought never to believe what they hear.” 

“ ‘ There is no smoke without fire,’ ” returned Mrs. Allen. “ 1 
shall put on my bonnet at once, and go round to the Hattons’.” 

“ You had much better not,” said her son, who deeply regretted 
having given any information. 

But Mrs. Allen was not to be persuaded; she put on her bonnet,, 
and went out. On passing the church she went round to look at 
the building going on. There stood the vicar, talking to the fore- 
man. He raised his hat gravely, but did not come forward to 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


99 


speak. Now, this was a mark of attention which Mrs. Allen 
thought clue to her; she felt annoyed, and declared to herself that, 
ns he did not show her any particular courtesy, he could not expect 
her to treat him with much consideration. 

Admiral and Mrs. Hatton and the girls were all at home, bat even 
Mrs Allen did not think it advisable to bring forward her subject 
in Admiral Hatton’s presence. 

“ It is very warm this afternoon,” she said, fanning herself. “ I 
should so like to see your roses, and sit under the shade of your 
nice trees. Won’t you show me your garden, Miss Ethel?” 

“ With pleasure,” returned that young lady, falling at once into 
the trap. 

“ I can’t take any one else out in the heat; 1 can’t, indeed,” said 
Mrs. Allen, as Mrs. Hatton got up to accompany her. “ 1 will be 
with you in a few minutes.” 

She walked across the lawn with Ethel. 

“ And what is this I hear about the vicar?” she asked, abruptly. 

Ethel colored, thinking she alluded to his absence of the past 
week, and vexed to think the fact must in some way have been 
made known to the town. 

“ 1 thought I would come to you first of all, my dear,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Allen, ‘‘because 1 am the last person ever to repeat 
scandal or say anything ill-natured; and, of course, you must know 
all know about it.” 

■** About what?” asked Ethel, distantly. 

‘‘About these visits to Fisherman’s Cove.” 

“ What visits? I do not understand you.” 

“Oh,” returned Mrs. Allen, with marked emphasis; ‘‘then it 
is worse than 1 thought. 1 made sure he would have told you” 

“ Told me what, Mrs. Allen,” said Ethel, indignantly. ” What 
is there to tell? Of course, 1 have always known that Mr. Manley 
visited at Fisherman’s Cove.” 

‘‘Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Allen, in a voice of commiseration, * 
“ it isn’t just ordinary visiting. A very pretty woman lives there, 
^and my son has seen— yes, actually seen — the vicar talking to her 
at night, with his own eyes.” 

“ How could he see with any other person’s eyes?” asked Miss 
Hatton, sharply, who had joined them unobserved. 

“What nonsense you are talking, Mrs. Allen; I don’t believe a 
word of it.” * 

“You are veiy polite,” replied Mrs. Allen. “ X must say, very 
polite.” 


100 THE BACHELOR YICAR OE NEWEORTH. 

“ 1 can’t help it,” returned Miss Hatton, “ but I do hate scandal,, 
and 1 am quite sure that any scandal against the vicar would be 
gross falsehood. Will you tell me, in black and white, what you. 
mean?” 

“ No,” said Mrs. Allen, now very angry. “ No, 1 won’t; and 
if your sister doesn’t know, all. 1 can say is, 1 am very sorry for 
her, poor thing. 1 told her, because 1 considered it my duly. Good- 
afternoon 1” 

44 Whenever any one is spiteful, it is always because of one’s 
duty,” said Miss Hatton, warmly. 44 What are you looking like: 
that about, Ethel? You can’t be such a fool as to believe it.” 

44 1 don’t believe it,” said Ethel, in a low voice, 44 but 1 wish 
people wouldn’t talk; and oh, how 1 wish Phil would come.” 

She had aressed herself very becomingly for his reception; and, 
even as she spoke, his head appeared in the distance. 

44 1 will leave you to yourselves,” said her sister; 44 but 1 advise 
you to be careful what you say, Ethel. From what 1 know of 
Mr. Manley ” — for Miss Hatton never called him by his Christian: 
name— 44 1 am sure he is not the man to put up with any nonsense.” 

The vicar came forward with outstretched hands. 

44 Ethel, my darling, are you glad to see me?” he asked, gently. 

44 Yes,” she answered, quietly, but without drawing nearer to 
him; 44 1 am very glad indeed, Phil. 1 diu not think you would 
have stayed away so long. Why did you?” 

44 Can you tell me truthfully that you received me quite as you. 
should have done on the occason of my last visit? 1 am not find- 
ing fault, my darling,” he said, gravely, 44 but 1 can not let you 
think I have been indifferent to you.” 

44 No, Phil,” she answered, in a low tone, 44 1 did not receive 
you properly, and 1 am very sorry. But 1 did think you might 
- have gone to Templemore with us.” 

44 1 told you at the time that it was quite impossible for me to 
leave Newforth for a single day.” 

He had placed her hand in his arm, and was standing beneath the 
trees. 

44 But what made it impossible? That is what you did not tell 
me.” 

44 That is what 1 can not tell you, Ethel; you must net expect 
either now, or when we are married, to be told everything. A 
number of people confide in a clergyman who certainly would not 
confide in him if he were to repeat even the substance of their 
communications to his wife.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


101 


Mrs. Allen’s insinuations returned to Ethel’s mind; she withdrew 
her hand from the vicar’s arm. 

“Phil,” she exclaimed, suddenly, “do you know people are 
talking about you.” 

“ About me!” he repeated; “ and what do tney say?” 

“ 1 don’t know what they say, but they make very unpleasant 
hints.” 

“ Of what nature?” 

IShe repeated Mrs. Allen’s words, as far as she remembered them ; 
but, instead of the indignant denial she had expected, the vicar’s 
face wore a look of the most serious concern, and tor some mo- 
ments he did not speak. 

“lam extremely sorry to hear that any such reports are being 
spread,” he said, at length, very gravely; “ extremely sorry.” 

“ But they are not true, Phil, are they?” said Ethel, appealingly. 

“ What!” he exclaimed, in amazement, “ do you believe in any- 
thing of that nature you may have heard against me— you, Ethel?” 
and he set his face sternly. 

“ Please don’t be angry, Phil,” she returned, humbly; “ 1 don't 
believe it. 1 only wanted you to say that you didn’t go to the 
Cove so much to see that pretty woman.” 

“But I do go there,” he returned, with decision, “although I 
do not see why my actions should be the subject of public remark. 
1 go to see the woman of whom you speak, whose husoand is ill.” 

“Oh,” said Ethel, greatly relieved, “then you go to see him 
because he is ill.” 

“ I wish you to understand, Ethel, in the clearest, though in the 
kindest, manner,” said the vicar, speaking very gently, “ that 1 do 
not admit even your right to question my actions where my parish- 
ioners are concerned. These matters are between them and me 
alone. But, as 1 do npt wish you to understand what is false, even 
though it be implied falsehood, I will tell you that I go to see them 
both; they are both in need of me.” 

She turned away from him. 

“ Ethel,” he said, giavely, “ if you knew what trouble 1 am in, 
you would not behave thus.” 

She turned to him at once, saying, gently, “I am very sorry, 
dear Phil, 1 did not know you were in trouble. Tell me what it is.” 

“ That is just what I can not tell you, my darling; it would not 
be right that I should at present. Meantime you will do me a 
great service by silencing these reports, if you possibly can. 1 am 
more grieved than 1 can say that they should have got wind.” 


102 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE XEWFORTH. 


She looked up at him, prepaied to tell him she would do her 
wery utmost, when a sudden idea flashed across her mind, and she 
spoke impulsively, “ Is the trouble about that pretty woman , Phil?” 

He turned round, and walked out of the garden without another 
word. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

DISTRUST. 

Matters in Newforth parish were going badly. It was not that 
there was any lack of zeal in work, any lack of funds, any abate- 
ment of interest in the building of the spire, but that an ever-grow- 
ing scandal concerning the vicar was spreading. It had even pene- 
trated to the poorer classes of Hewforth, to the various districts; 
and when the British workman gets hold of any one’s reputation, 
good-bye to it. 

The wildest reports prevailed— originating no one knew how or 
whence— that the vicar had been seen at the dead of night in the 
country lanes with the strange woman; that in the dusk, under the 
shelter of the cliffs, he had hissed her over and over again; that 
his visits to her husband were a mere pretext, together with sup- 
positions still more wild and improbable. 

What had any one seen? Ho reliable witness had seen anything; 
But, of coarse, it must be true, or other people could not be talk- 
ing. Certainly Mr. Manley’s dog had been recognized outside Mrs. 
Stevens’s cottage on various occasions, but otherwise no one could 
say a word positively. Still there were talkings and whisperings 
and shaking of heads, and the vicai’s influence was perceptibly 
weaker. He himself was quite unconscious of what was said, 
with the exception of Ethel’s communication to him. That any 
talk should have arisen was a great anxiety to him, for reasons 
totally unconnected with himself, and added vastly to the actual 
trouble itself. His cheeks were becoming a little hollow; his voice 
more touching, and ceiLtinly a little melancholy, the ring of pathos 
was very perceptible. 

Ethel he had not seen since he had parted from her in the gar- 
den. In truth, he had been most deeply hurt and surprised. Still, 
within an hour, he sent her a note— a very short note. It said: 

“ If 1 failed in courtesy toward you, Ethel, in leaving you to- 
day without wishing you good-bye, 1 now ofler you an apology 

“T M.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 10^ 

This, for a first love-letter, can not be called ardent; but the 
vicar bad not the smallest intention of making it ardent. He felt 
terribly disappointed, and much grieved at the jealousy she had 
displayed. He had been quite right in telling her she was of a 
jealous disposition, when they were first engaged. She was very 
jealous; although she had done her utmost to keep her jealousy 
under control, or to conceal it, she had yet felt jealous of every 
woman he had spoken to, of every word ot praise bestowed by 
him; at times she was even jealous of his cook! And now that 
he did not ccme and see her— for during the first few days the 
vicar had resolved not to do so — and these reports were gatheiing 
and gaining ground, she felt intensely wretched. 

For himself he suffered much. He was a man of very strong 
feeling, and in every relationship of life his feelings, when touched 
were touched deeply. 

He had loved his mother with an affection shown by few sons; 
he had been the most warm-hearted of friends, the stanchest of 
partisans. He could not be lukewarm. He loved his congregation 
with a genuine self-forgetting regard ; and now that he had given 
his heart tc Ethel, he could not affect indifference, or play fast and 
loose with her, after the fashion of many modern lovers. 

He had intended, on her return from Templemoie, to make her 
aware that he was in trouble, and ask her forbearance in not seek- 
ing to become acquainted with the nature of that trouble; but her 
doubts had so disturbed and distressed him that he no longer felt 
inclined to seek her. He loved her as much— that feeling was be- 
yond his control— but he was disappointed in her. Believing that 
it would be best for them both that they should not meet quite yet, 
he remained away. 

By this time Mr. Yorke had been made aware that something 
was wrong. He was greatly troubled. He was now a man of 
considerable influence in JSfewforth, partly owing to his means and 
good family, partly to his own dignified hearing, and to his friend- 
ship with the Vincents and Mr. Manley. He had a mortal horror 
of morning visits, but, notwithstanding, he spent a considerable 
portion of his afternoons now in calling with his wife on every 
one he knew in the place. Of course, in every house the vicar was 
at present the prominent subject of conversation; and Yorke enter- 
ing into it as a matter of course, used his very utmost endeavors to 
laugh away any unpleasant hint that might arise, and would some- 
times, in a casual way, acquaint people that he had known Mr. 
Manley intimately as a boy and young man, and considered that 


104 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

they were most fortunate in having him in their parish, as he was 
•—he could speak from personal knowledge — one of the best men 
who ever lived. .Whether to acquaint the vicar with what was 
going on against him he did not know. He decided at length that 
he would not; it would only add to his trouble, and do no good. 

It was now the end or August, and although, in the first instance, 
Mr. Manley had expressed a wish to be married at the end of Sep- 
tember, still no preparations were made; by mutual consent, lat- 
terly, the subject had been avoided. But it had already been agreed 
that the wedding was to be as quiet as possible. There were to be 
neither guests nor carriages; neither was there to be any breakfast. 
The bride and bridegroom were to be married early, and go away 
from the church doors on the short honeymoon of a fortnight, 
which was all the time the vicar thought he could spare. She 
would, of course, be married in a traveling dress, and he had re- 
quested that her trousseau should not be unnecessarily large, know- 
ing as he did full well that any great outlay would certainly 
hamper Admiral Hatton. 

While matters stood thus, Mr. Leslie met the vicar one day in a 
load leading out of Newfortli. Now the church- warden had long 
age woke up to the idea that there were duties, and very serious 
duties, attached to his office. He coneeived that it was now one of 
them to interrogate Mr. Manley as to the reports that had arisen. 
Properly speaking, he knew this unpleasant duty should have be- 
longed to Admiral Hatton, as the people’s warden; but as yet the 
scandal had barely reached the admiral. 

Owing to the engagement with his daughter, people were bhary 
of communicating the vicar’s supposed delinquencies to him; and 
also the admiral was known to have a very hot temper, and to be 
quite incapable of keeping a secret. He would as likely as not 
have rushed off to the vicar, and in whatever place. or company he 
had found him, demanded what he meant by it; and would proba- 
bly publish his answer to every one he met, until his anger had 
cooled down, and he had time to act reasonably. 

But it was not without very great reluctance that Mr. Leslie ap- 
proached the subject. Warm as was his regard for his vicar, he 
was quite conscious that he was a man with whom even his great- 
est friend would not feel justified in taking a liberty. In this case 
he knew that one of the church- wardens must speak, and of the 
two be preferred it should be himself. 

He did not personally believe in one word of the truth of the re- 
ports; he had the most unbounded faith in his vicar, in addition to 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 105 

his great liking for him. It was with a hesitation quite foreign 
to his nature that he opened the subject. 

Mr. Manley was returning from visiting a sick man in an out- 
lying district; the day was very warm and he looked tired. He 
was carrying some books which, on a former visit, he had lent the 
man. 

“ Let me take them from you,” said Mr. Leslie; “ 1 have noth- 
ing to carry.” 

“ ^ e will divide them,” said ‘he vicar, cheerfully; “ they are 
rather heavy on so warm a day. Thank you.” 

Feeling that any delay would only increase the difficulty, Mr. 
Leslie plunged at once into his subject. 

‘‘Mr. Manley,” he said, abruptly, ‘‘there are a pack of fools 
here who are ill-natured enough to spread reports to your disad- 
vantage. It is with the very gveatest dislike that 1 tell you this, 
and I don’t believe a syllable of it myself; but I thought you ought 
to be told, in order that ycu might give me your authority for at 
once contradicting them, which 1 shall have the greatest pleasure in 
doing.” 

Once more an expression cf deep concern overspread the vicar’s 
thoughtful face. 

‘‘Are these reports general, and extensively circulated?” he 
asked, gravely. 

“ Unfortunately they are.” 

” Will you kindly tell me what is said?” 

Mr. Leslie did so, blending his remarks with many indignant 
comments, and adding, “ 1 feel sure that you will tell me the rights 
of it, and we will soon put an end to this.” 

" This is all 1 can tell you,” said the vicar. “ A man and woman 
are lodging at Fisherman’s Cove. He is ill; they are both in seri- 
ous trouble, and in need of me and my services. This you can 
mention openly. As to some cf the reports you have stated, I need 
scarcely assuie you that they are entirely false. But I tell you in 
confidence — not as lo a lawyer, but as to a friend, a hearty, sincere 
friend— that there will be serious mischief done if these reports are- 
not silenced. Personally, 1 am not to blame.” 

‘‘ That 1 am quite sure of,” said Mr. Leslie, warmly; “ 1 never 
thought you were. The nuisance of it is that v? hen people once 
begin to talk, it is such a very difficult matter to stop them. 1 
suppose I may contradict that you ever met this woman in the 
dead of night.” 

‘‘Hot in the dead of night; but 1 have met her at ten o’clock 


106 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


at night. I candidly allow— still in confidence-that 1 did net 
wish our meeting to be made public. Circumstances pi evented my 
going to her and hei husband that evening, and to save time she 
<>a me to meet me, on one occasion. 1 did not know we weie 
watched.” 

4 ‘ It you met every woman in the parish in turn, night after 
aright, i should think it no harm, and know there was a reason 
for it. Unfortunately other people won’t believe that.” 

The vicar smiled. 

“ 1 hope no such experience is likely to befall me; 1 should very 
much object to meet every woman in the parish, or any woman in 
the parish. It has been, alas! a most painful necessity.” 

“ Am 1 to say so?” 

“No” said the vicar, with decision; ” for the present, 1 would 
rather have as little said as possible. One of these days 1 shall be 
able to explain it to you. At present 1 must be more careful than 
I have been. Though openly visiting every one as I have ever done 
- — many of them day after day in cases of illness— it is a mystery to 
me how reports as of something unusual should have got about.” 

“ it is always the case that when you don’t want a tiling to hap- 
pen it does happen,” said Mr. Leslie. 

“ Is Admiial Hatton aware of this?” 

“ 1 do not think he is.” 

“Is Ethel?” 

“ 1 can not say. 1 told my wife to be sure and not say anything; 
hut 1 must honestly tell you there is a great deal said.” 

The vicar’s great love arose in his heart; he longed to be with 
JCthel. 

“ 1 thank you, Leslie,” he said. “ I will say good-bye now; I 
am going at once to the Hattons’.” 

“ I will leave the books for you at the vicarage,” returned Mr. 
Leslie; “ it will be on my road, and out of yours.” 

“You are very kind.” 

The vicar walked on with a quick step, bis mind fuller of Ethel 
and the cause for jealousy she might be feeling than of his own 
anxiety, and the injury the reports might cause him. 

In the lane he met her. She was dressed all in white; her face 
and figure looked very beautiful as she stood beneath the elm-trees. 
She carried some geraniums in her hand. 

” Ethel, my darling,” he said, hastening toward her, “ I am very 
glad to see you. 1 want to have a long talk with you. We must 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 10 T 

not be estranged from one another, you know. If it has been mjr 
fault 1 am willing to make most ample amends.” 

But in reply to this speech, which was most earnestly delivered,, 
Ethel only gave a light laugh. 

“Ethel,” he said, gravely, “1 have told you that 1 wish to 
speak to you. Wlieie can we speak quietly?” 

“If 1 kad known you were coming to-day, Phil,” she replied, 
carelessly, “ 1 would have stayed at home; but, as you never do 
come now, 1 have accepted an invitation to Mrs. Allen’s.” 

“Mrs. Allen’s!” said the vicar. “1 am surprised that you 
should go there, after what she has said about me, which you re- 
peated to me yourself.” 

“ It. is a garden-party,” returned Ethel, “ and 1 was dull.” 

“ Is not your sister going?” 

She colored as she replied “ No.” 

“ You can spare me a little time before you go, 1 suppose?” 

“ 1 really don’t think 1 can, Phil; 1 shall be late as it is.” 

“ When can you see me?” 

“ 1 really don’t know. Good-bye, Phil.” 

She walked on; he raised his hat, and stood still in his dismays 
and vexation. 

Miss Hatton came out at the garden-gate and held out her hand, 
shaking the vicar’s warmly. 

“ You are not going to the garden-party?” he said. 

“Ac>,” answered Miss Hatton, energetically. “1 should not 
think of it after what that woman said here the other day. 1 told 
Ethel she had no right to go. 1 can’t think what has come over 
her latety; she isn’t like herself.” . 

In truth, overpowering jealousy had come over her, completely 
warping her reason and judgment. She had heard all her more po- 
lite neighbors had to say, and in visiting her disirict had heard far 
more. The working classes being given to calling a spade not only 
a spade, but far more than a spade, had expressed their opinion in 
no measured terms, and Ethel, from want of knowledge, had been 
unable to contradict them. Their words added fuel co the flame, 
and she lived in wretchedness and anger. The vicar’s character 
was torn to shreds among them— all his kindness, his goodness, his 
earnestness seived only to cause such speeches as these: “ Lor’, 
miss, and if he isn’t just what he should be, what does it matter? 
A kind gentleman like he, who is generous with his money.” 

“ I must see Ethel,” said the vicar to Miss Hatton ; “ it is incredi- 
ble that she should believe the worst of me. There are certain 


108 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


things it is my duty to tell her. 1 should have done so long ago, 
could 1 have foreseen any of this most unfortunate talk.” 

“ Mr. Mauley,” said Miss Hatton, earnestly, “ if 1 were in Ethel’s 
place 1 should not require a rvord of explanation, You are a good 
man, I knew, and that ought to be enough.” 

“ Thank you, Gertrude,” said Mr. Manley; “ T wish Ethel had 
your trust. Will you tell her from me that 1 expect her to appoint 
an interview with me?” 

“Yes; and perhaps,” she continued, with some hesitation— 
“ perhaps it might be as well for you not to go to the Cove just 
jet.” 

“ 1 must go there,” he replied, gravely. 


CHAPTER XX. 

. TROUBLE. 

The vicar was greatly distressed— distressed above measure. 
Any other trial he thought he would have berne better, but this 
scandal affected his usefulness, affected his work, and he was sure 
would injure the cause of religion, by making people believe he 
was a hypocrite. 

His vcice became stern; when not actively engaged in the serv- 
ice, he would lean against a column, with his head thiown 
slightly back, his white hand on his chin, liis firm mouth set de- 
terminedly, an expression of stern endurance on his face. Some- 
times he would almost turn his back on the congregation, and lean 
his head on his hand. He was conscious that, instead of the 
glances of affectionate interest bestowed on him, the looks sa- 
vored now more of curiosity than regard;" but he beheld as though 
he saw not. He did his duties as before, though his visiting among 
the poor had become a great trial. If he could have openly de- 
clared himself blameless, and stated all the circumstances, he 
would have done so; he knew that he was compelled to hold his 
peace. 

“ Could 1 have foreseen this, nothing would have prevailed on 
me to give my word,” he said to himself, “ on account of the harm 
that is being brought on all clergymen in my name; but it is now 
useless to regret.” 

Many a time in the poorer streets did he hear insinuations thrown 
out as he passed, but he held his head a little higher, and took no 
heed. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF KEWFORTH. 


109 


Ethel he had not seen, she went away suddenly for a week’s visit 
to some friends. Ho determined that she should see him on her 
return, whether willingly or not. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE ENGAGEMENT BROKEN. 

The vicar and Mr. Yorke were now often seen in earnest consul- 
tation. 

“You have made a great mistake, Phil, I am afraid, out of sheer 
kindness of heart,” said Mr. Yorke, who, since his friend had been 
in trouble, never addressed him otherwise than as “ Phil,” linger- 
ing over the name as though to give him a pioof of his sincere 
friendship; for Mr. Yorke was most warmly attached to Mr. Man- 
ley. 

“lam afraid t have,” returned the vicar, “ but it is nc-w too late 
to turn back.” 

“ It is the ultimate consequences I am thinking of,” said Yorke. 

“ You mean that 1 might be compelled to resign my living; that 
would indeed be a great trouble.” 

But there were even worse consequences in Mr. Y'orke’s mind 
than that. 

“Is it even yet too late to state the truth?” he asked. 

“It is too late; 1 can not do it, Yorke.” And thoughts passed 
through the vicar’s mind, as certain possibilities arose before him, 
which made him look very sad. 

Of late he had lost his appearance of youth; he looked his full 
age. He was still strong and vigorous as ever; his face was even 
finer in its expression of determination, but there was care in his 
eyes. 

Ethel returned late one evening. While she had been away hei 
thoughts had rested almost entirely on Mr. Manley, and she saw 
she had been gTeatly to blame. At least she could hear what he 
had to say. She wrote him a note appointing a meeting out of 
doors the next day at a place some little distance down the high- 
road. He replied, by her messenger, that he would not fail to be 
there. 

On this evening Admiral Hatton was dining out. It was a gen- 
tleman’s dinner party; some fourteen were present. 

After dinner the conversation turned on the unfortunate vicar, 
3ind the guests, warmed with their wine, and forgetting the posi- 


110 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


tion of bis daughter, retailed to the admiral all the various reports 
which had been circulating for so long. 

The old gentleman started up in a fury. “ I’ll not believe it; 1 
can’t believe it of Manley. 1 have always found him a good man 
aud a gentleman. Where shall 1 find him, I wonder? I will go 
to him this minute.” 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Campbell, who was of the party, he is proba- 
bly to be found at Fisherman’s Cove.” 

“Hold your tongue, sir,” roared the admiral; “ what do you 
mean by that?” 

“ No, sir,” said Mr. Campbell, firmly (who was perfectly sober 
and collected), “ 1 will not hold my tongue. 1 distinctly saw him 
go down the road toward the Cove half an hour ago. If it wasn’t 
him it must have been his ghost.” 

“1 will go to him,” said the admiral, and, turning to his host* 
continued, “ you must excuse me, Smith.” 

“ With pleasure,” returned Mr. Smith, who, under the circum- 
stances, was extremely glad to see the admiral’s back. 

“We can talk in peace now,” he said. 

“ YFon’t he give the parson a wigging, that’s all!” said Mr. 
Campbell, “and serve him jolly well right! This comes of aU 
your profession of goodness!” , 

“ 1 don’t know what to think,” said Mr. Smith. “ 1 cculd have 
sworn the vicar was as good a man as ever breathed.” 

“ 1 believe he is now,” said young Mr. Allen: “ 1 dare say it’s 
more than half lies.” 

“ It is a great pity he should be so much at the Cove,” said Mr. 
Smith. 

Meantime the admiral’s indignation was lending him wings. He 
sped along the high-road in a manner totally unprecedented for 
him, arriving at the entrance to the Cove breathless. He saw a 
light in Mrs. Stevens’s cottage as he made his way cautiously 
down the cliff; the other houses were dark, shut up for the night. 

It was now ten o’clock, and a most lovely evening. There was 
no moon, but the stars were shining over the sea. He heard the 
dip of oars, and thought he could discern the hull of a large fish- 
ing-boat making her way slowly toward the Cove, but he was not 
quite sure. 

He looked about for the door of Mrs. Stevens’s cottage, quite de- 
termined to make his way in and ask for the vicar. But at first 
he could not find it. He found himself beneath an open window, 
and caught the tones of Mr. Manley’s deep voice. There were shut- 


THE BACHELOR YICAE OF NEWFORTH. 


Ill 


ters ot lattice-work across the window, which shut from the out- 
side; he cautiously opened one a little way and looked in, excusing 
himself on the ground that it was a work of necessity. And this 
is what he saw. A poorly-furnished sitting-room, its sole occu- 
pants the vicar and a very pretty woman in humble attire, and the 
pretty woman was in the vicar’s arms. 

” God bless you, my dearest Mary!” he heard, in the clergyman’s 
well-known tones, his voice ringing with the deepest feeling; 
“ good-bye, dear, and may God be with you,” and then he kissed 
her three or four times. 

The admiral closed the window-shutter with a bang, although 
the noise was unobserved by those within. 

” The scoundrel!” he exclaimed, ‘‘the vile, hypocritical scoun- 
drel! the whole parish shall hear of this. He shall not stay in 
INewforth another week.” 

He would have made his way into the cottage there and then had 
he not caught sight of the vicar’s active term ascending the cliffs 
with a quick step. But it was in vain that he endeavoied to over- 
take him. The admiral’s previous exertions had somewhat ex- 
hausted him, and by the time he had gained the summit Mr. Man- 
ley was completely out of sight. 

Admiral Hatton, paused to rest for a few minutes. As he 
waited he again beard the dip of oars, and thought he saw the large 
boat leave the shore. 

He arrived at home furious. “ If it wasn’t so late I would go to 
the vicarage at once,” he said. 

“ Much better sleep over it, father,” said Miss Hatton, who had 
remained up, and had heard the narrative with some concern. 
” Perhaps the vicar will be able to explain it satisfactorily.” 

“ A scoundrel would not mind being a liar,” retorted the admiral. 

” That Mr. Manley couldn't be,” said Miss Hatton, with much 
warmth. 

” Go to bed,” returned her father, '* and don’t talk about what 
you don’t understand.” At a quarter to eight o’clock the next 
morning, just before the service, the vicar received a note, written 
in great haste evidently, with scrawls and blotches on its pages. 
It ran thus- 

“ Mr. Manley,— I demand an explanation of your conduct last 
night, on my daughter’s account, and also on account of the par- 
ishioners ot Newforth. H. T. Hatton.” 

The belt was even then ringing for service; the vicar put the let- 
ter in his pocket and crossed over to the church. It was his cus- 


112 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFOKTH. 


tom to divide the service with Mr. Kowen, hut on this occasion h© 
signified his intention of taking the entire service; otherwise he 
knew he could not keep his thoughts from dwelling on the letter ir* 
his pocket. 

He read with deep feeling, and remained kneeling afterward a 
little longer than usual. At breakfast time he. pondered on the an- 
swer he should give. 

It appeared to him as something very marvelous that every action 
of his should be brought to light, but his thoughts did not long 
dwell on this point. The admiral evidently knew of his farewell 
of the preceding evening, and what could he say? — explanations he 
could give none. 

He resolved to see Ethel first, and as she hail appointed eleven 
for their meeting, he wrote to Admiral Hatton, saying he would 
be at his house at two o’clock. 

Now Miss Hatton had requested her father, as a particular favor, 
that h6 would say nothing to Ethel of what he had seen until the 
vicar had been allowed to explain it. She carried her point with * 
much difficulty, but finally prevailed, so that it was with an un- 
clouded brow and tolerably light heart that Ethel advanced to meet 
him at the appointed time and place. He read in her face in a 
moment that she had heard no fresh news, and was glad of it. 

“Now, Phil,” she said, brightly, “1 have come to hear all 
you have to tell, and 1 have also come quite prepared to be scolded 
for my past conduct." 

He smiled, very much pleased. 

“ Would it be too far for you to go to the wood, my darling?" 
he asked; “ we can not talk very well in the high-road." 

“ Not at all," she answered, readily, “ 1 have always loved that . 
wood ever since— ever since— you know." 

“ And so have I," he replied, heartily. “ 1 never spent such an 
hour in my life as that in which 1 first walked through the wood 
with you." 

“ And, Phil, I hope you have come to tell me that it has been 
entirely false, what has been said about you and the Cove, and 
that you don’t like any one else better than me, and that after this 
there is going to be nothing but peace between us." 

“ 1 can most truthfully tell you that 1 do not like any one else 
better than you," he replied, earnestly; “ and 1 most assuredly 
hope there is going to be nothing but peace between us; but for 
the rest, Ethel, 1 shall be compelled to appeal to your love and for- 
bearance." 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWPORTH. 


113 : 


He •winced slightly as he spoke. 

“ On account of— those people?'’ she said, slowly. 

“ Even so.” 

After this there was complete silence between them, until they 
entered the wood and walked toward the narrow, winding paths. 

No longer hand in hand, no longer so filled with sentiment of the 
highest kind that even words were not necsssary. Instead of this 
there were a man and woman keenly impressed with the hard nat- 
ure of the realities of life, and care and distrust walked between 
them. 

A great many leaves had already fallen; they lay in heap? 
about their feet. The trees looked dull and somber, and the day, 
though warm, was not bright. The sea in the distance showed oc' 
casionally Ibrough the branches; it, looked grayish- green. 

As the trees began to meet overhead he turned to her. 

“ Ethel,” he said, gently, " remember what we talked of in this-, 
very place— remember our love and cur trust,. and hear me now.” 

“ Yes, Phil,” she answered, placing her hand in his. 

” Circumstances have arisen, my darling, for which I am in nc> 
degree responsible; that is to say, as to their primary causes. These 
have placed me in a most ambiguous position apparently. I have 
given my most sacred word that 1 will not reveal them even to 
you, though had 1 known the evil results of this promise I should 
not have dene so. In. one way, however, perhaps it is best. Had 
1 confided in you, your father would still have insisted on your 
breaking off your engagement (and that he will now try to make 
ycu do so 1 am sure of); and when you declined— and 1 think you 
will decline, my darling— he would have urged you for your rea- 
sons for faith in me. If he knew them, every one would know 
them, and that must not be. 1 ask you now, Ethel, to believe in 
me without reasons, and in the face of slanderous reports, because 
you love me and know that 1 love you with all my heart.” 

‘‘But why should my father try to break ofi our engagement 
more now than a week ago?” 

The vicar flushed slightly. 

“A circumstance took place last night which in some manner 
has become known to him. 1 will tell it to you with my own lips, 
-Ethel, entreating you to believe that I have done no wrong, and 
were it left tc my own free will I would tell you everything." 

** What is it?” said the girl, withdrawing her hand and facing- 
him. 

“ Before I tell you let me assure you of one thing, my darling — 


114 THE BACHELOE YICAK 0 E NEWFOETH. 

that this reserve is only for a time. It is not riiy intention to keep 
& secret from you for all time; trust me for three months, Ethel, 
only for three months. Three months will probably put an end to 
all secrecy — six must. Delay our marriage till then, if you prefer 
it— though to me this will be a great trial— but trust me for that 
time.” 

‘‘1 will try to do so,” she replied, gravely, “though 1 wish 
there were not obliged to be secrets between us. Now, what is it 
that my father knows?” 

The vicar still delayed his communication; he called his dog, 
who had accompanied him, and sent him away again in search of 
a stick. Then he spoke resolutely. 

“ Last night, my darling, 1 went to see those people ac the Cove. 
After this they will trouble you no more. 1 said good-bye to her 
alone, and took her in my arms and kissed her. That is what your 
father will tell you.” 

Her eyes sparkled angrily. “Taw did this, Phil! You? And 
•shea married woman!” 

“ And she a married woman,” he repeated, sadly; “ but 1 declare 
to you before God that 1 am tree of blame.” 

“You need not asseverate so strongly,” she replied, coldly; “ 1 
suppose j'our affection was Platonic, but it is carrying matters 
rather far, 1 think. ” 

“ Ethel!” he returned, “ have you lost all your faith in me?” 

She looked into his earnest eyes and saw how his face glowed 
with deep feeling. 

“ Phil,” she said, quickly, “ 1 love you so dearly ; 1 will have 
faith in you even now if you will tell me that you did not love her, 
although you kissed her.” 

He made no reply. 

“ Did you, do you love her, Phil?” she asked, wildly. 

“ I do not love her in the same way as 1 do jou — or as much. 

I love you more than all, Ethel.” 

She turned from him. 

“ Twill not have your love, if it be shared by others. 1 told you 
I would give you my opinion of you at Christmas; 1 will give it 
now, if you wish — 1 have lost my respect for you.” 

He held out his hands and spoke, facing her. 

“ 1 appeal to you for the. last time, Ethel. Has not my love 
spoken, has not my manner of life spoken during the time you 
have known me? Let the past be forgotten until such time as I 
can explain it, and trust me for the future.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF XEWFORTH. 


115 


For a moment she wavered, her love almost turning the balance 
in his favor. And then her conscience stepped in and she felt she 
could not love him if she did not reverence him; and how should, 
she do so knowing what she knew? The accusations she had heard 
returned in lullest force. 

“ 1 can’t, Phil, 1 can’t. You will be my clergyman as welt as* 
my lover, and my faith in you will be gone,” she said, brokenly. 

‘‘Go, then,” he replied, sternly; ‘‘from henceforth go out of 
my life. You who have no trust can have no love.” 

She stood still — the consciousness of what she was losing com- 
ing over her — and remained thus until he took her by the arm and 
led her until they reached the high-road. He opened the gate for 
her, but did not pass through himself. 

“ Go,” he said again, but this time very gently, “ and may God 
be with you also!” 

Then, leaving her, he plunged into the thickest recesses of the 
dusky woods, and lay down on his face, covering his eyes with his 
hands, which, when he removed them at length, were wet with 
tears. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

CALLED TO ACCOUNT. 

Punctually at two o’clock the vicar* presented himself at 
Admiral Hatton’s gates. Miss Hatton met him, her rich color 
mantling in her face. 

“ 1 want to speak to you a moment, Mr. Manley,” she said, “ be- 
fore you see my father. Ethel has been telling me something of 
what passed between you this morning. 1 am ashamed of my sis- 
ter. Were 1 in her place nothing would have made me lose my 
faith in you. I have not lost it now.” 

•‘ 1 thank you. Miss Hatton,” he returned, gravely. 

The “Miss Hatton,” instead of “ Gertrude ” struck her. 

“Is ycur parting final?” she asked, in anxiety. 

“ It. is quite final,” he replied. 

“ Ethel is a fool,” said Miss Hatton, sharply, and turning away 
with tears in her eyes. 

At the front door the vicar heard Admiral Hatton’s voice, and 
could not avoid listening to the words—'” 1 saw him kissing and 
hugging her with my own eyes, Mrs. Leslie, before my very face.” 

“ Did he see you?” he heard, in Mis. Leslie’s quiet tones, and 
the rejoinder struck his quick ears. 


116 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEW FORTH. 

“ Not he; 1 looked through the window.” 

“ Oh!” returned Mrs. Leslie, with more expression in the word 
than the vicar had thought possible. 

Then the door was opened, but Mr. Manley refused to be shown 
into the drawing-room; he said he would wait in the hall until the 
admiral was made aware of his presence. It was rather a shabby 
hall as to furniture, but the girls invariably brightened it with 
great pots of flowers and flowering shrubs. The vicar thought 
of Ethel, and hoped that at least the sight of her might be spared 
him. All traces of his recent agitation had left him; he wore his 
usual composed demeanor. As he steod in the hall he heard the 
admiral exclaim, in loud tones, 41 Of course I looked through the 
window; 1 would look through twenty windows, it it concerned 
the happiness of my girls;” and again Mrs. Leslie’s voice replied, 
“Oh!” The admiral then came out, locking very red and tum- 
bled, his hair pushed off his forehead, his necktie on one side. 
He glanced at the vicar’s scrupulously correct costume with some 
disdain. 

44 You don’t lock like a man in any anxiety,” he said, gruffly, 
44 with your smug appearance and collar as white as snow. Look 
at me.” 

The vicar did look at him — looked him full in the face. 

44 You must excuse me, sir,” he said, quietly, 44 but ] have not 
come here to-day to listen to remarks on my personal appearance. 
1 shall be glad if you will enter on your business with me without 
delay, as I am really pressed for time.” 

The admiral led the way into the dimng-rcom, which was 
empty, and sat down in an arm-chair. The vicar remained stand- 
*ng. 

“ Why don’t you taue a chair’” said Admiral Hatton, testily. 

44 Thank you, i prefer to stand,” said the vicar, courteously; 44 1 
do not suppose you will detain me long.” 

“ You can’t possibly have any excuse 1o make for yourself, 
Manley, you knew; still 1 am willing to give you the chance. 
What did you mean by your conduct last night, kissing that 
wretched woman in my very presence?” 

The vicar’s eyes flashed. 

44 1 am prepared to bg called to account by you, Admiral Hat* 
Ion,” he replied, sternly; 44 but 1 utterly decline to listen to impu- 
tations against one who is as good a woman as ever lived.” 

44 Very well,” returned the admiral, promptly; 44 well, leave the 
woman out of the question. What did you mean by it, sir?” and 


«srv 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


117 


again raising his voice and thumping his hand on the table, “ I 
say, what did you mean by it?" 

“ Were 1 speaking to you simply on the ground of being one 
gentleman in the presence of another, I should decline entirely to 
answer your question," said the vicar, speaking in the tone of 
authority he sometimes used when giving advice; “ but as 1 admit 
you have been placed in different relations to me, although those 
relations will now be severed, 1 am willing to clear myself as far 
as 1 am able. But^first you must allow me to inquire by wffiat right 
you made yourself a spy on my actions, and looked into a private 
room?" 

" Right!" roared the admiral, by every right. I'm not at all 
ashamed of it, and I’ll publish that, and your conduct, all over 
the place." 

" in that case,” said the vicar, gravely, "1 entirely refuse to 
offer you any explanation of my conduct.” 

He threw his head somewhat, back as he spoke; his face was set 
and determined. 

" You decline, do you?" said the admiral, in the same loud 
tones; " but I’ll make you. You seem to have entirely forgotten, 
young man, that 1 am church- warden to the people of Newforth. 
X will call a meeting, and you shall account for yourself, my fine 
fellow." 

" 1 have by no means forgotten the fact,” said the vicar, sternly; 

I am quite prepared to attend that meeting, and justify myself 
as far as I am able. But as you have shown me no courtesy on 
this occasion, and as my engagement with your daughter is now 
broken off, I prefer to say nothing further on the subject to you, 
except in your official capacity. It is exceedingly painful to me 
that my last visit to a house where 1 have received much kindness 
should be bf the nature of this." 

Admiral Hatton felt some remorse. 

"You needn’t go off in such a hurry; sit down and tell me what 
it really means." 

" As you propose calling a meeting, sir," said the vicar, gently, 
*‘ I should really piefer reserving what I have to say. It is very 
painful to a man to be called on to defend himself many times 
over, especially a man in my position. Added to which 1 am really 
pressed for time. 1 have made an appointment for a certain hour." 

" Where are you going?" asked Admiral Hatton, suspiciously. 

" That, sir, can scarcely matter to you," returned the vicar, his 
courteous manner in full force. 


118 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


“ It does matter to me,” said Ihe admiral. 

”1 am going to answer your question, sir/’ said the vicar,,, 
coldly,” though 1 decline to allow your right to put it. lam go- 
ing to Fisherman’s Core.” 

” Get out of my house, sir,” thundered the admiral. 

‘‘Most assuredly 1 shall go out of your house,” returned the 
vicar, with dignity, and walked out of the room. 

Miss Hatton stopped him on the door -steps, and wrung his 
hands. 

“ Gcod-bye, Mr. Manley; 1 know you won’t come here again., 
but God bless you ’’—and here hei voice broke. 


CHAPTER XX111. 

THE PARISHIONERS’ MEETING. 

On leaving Fisherman’s Cove, where ne lemained talking to* 
Mrs. Stevens for some quarter of an hour, and looking into the 
now empty rooms, the vicar called at Mr. Yorke’s. Yorke took 
him into the library. 

” It is a most serious business for you, Phil,” he said, when he 
had listened to Mr. Manley— ” a most serious business.” 

“ It is,” said the vicar, gravely. “ And tvhat shall you say at 
the meeting?” 

” What can 1 say?” replied his friend, gravely. “ I can net 
undo all the w T ork that has been done. 1 wish to goodness that 
you had had neither part nor lot in the affair,” he said, earnestly. 
“ 1 live in constant fear for you.” 

“lam prepared possibly to lose my church; 1 have already lost 
my future wife; I do not see what worse can befall me.” 

“But 1 do,” thought Yorke. 

He remained silent tor some moments. 

“1 shall see Vincent on this matter,” he said; ‘‘ho has great 
influence in the town.” 

The vicar by no means relished this. It was very hard to him 
to think that another man’s influence was required to rehabilitate 
him in the eyes <»f his own people, but he made no sign. 

At five o’clock he took the service, his face very grave, but not 
sadder than usual. It seemed specially to comfort him this after- 
noon; he remained on his knees a long time, and walked into the 
vestry afterward with a look of quiet peace on his countenance.. 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 119 

Hiss Hatton was present. On her return she went up to her sister, 
who had been crying bitterly in her own room. 

“ How you can believe anything wrong of a man who has such 
a noble face passes my compiehension, Ethel,” she said, impatient- 
ly. ‘‘I haven’t a single grain of sympathy for yDu. 1 would 
mairy him to morrow, and be sure whatever he did was light.” 

“ I do not want your sympathy,” said Ethel. “ 1 want to be by 
myself.” 

“You are very nfiserabk, 1 know, and you deserve to be” said 
her sister, as she left the room, 

Yorke- went over to Orton and saw Captain Vincent. But the 
latter was by no means enthusiastic on the subject of the vicar’s 
wrongs. 

“It’s an awkward business,” he said, reflectively; “any other 
man may do as he pleases, but there shouldn’t be a breath of sus- 
picion on a clergyman.” 

“ But, Rupert,” said his wife, earnestly, “ please do anything 
you can for that nice Mr. Manley, i am sure it is totally false 
-about him.” 

“ It is totally false. Mis. Vincent,” said Yorke. “ 1 speak from 
personal knowledge, though 1 am not allowed to state what 1 
know.” 

“ By your own account he has shown a great want of pru- 
dence,” said Captain Vincent. “ \ really don’t see what 1 can 
do.” 

“1 thought you might attend the meeting, which is called for 
next Satuiday, and support him.” 

“ 1 don’t think 1 can do that,” returned Captain Vincent, dubi- 
ously— to his wife’s intense disappointment. “But if they want 
to take away his living, or anything cf that sort, 1 will do what 1 
can. I really’don’t feel strongly enough on the subject to be pres- 
ent as one of his supporters.” 

The meeting was arranged for Satuiday evening; it was to be 
held at eight o’clock, at the Town Hall. Admiral Hatton had 
summoned the mayor and all the principal members of the congre- 
gation, to the intense disgust of Mr. Leslie. 

“It is infamous,” he declared; “ it’s the most indecent thing I 
ever heard of. Instead of allowing the vicar to explain himself, 
quietly and privately, here he is put on his trial before a whole 
mob of people.” 

High words had ensued between the church-wardens in conse- 
quence, Admiral Hatton having given it as his reason that he 


120 THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 

would not have all the responsibility placed on his shoulders. In- 
deed, in place of the former friendliness that reigned, there was 
now dissension all over the parish. Fierce discussions were every- 
where taking place as to whether the vicar had failed in his duty 
or not; it was no longer the 3 ame town. 

The lown Hall was almost full by a quarter to eight, for others 
besides the heads of families had asked tor admittance. At eight 
o’clock punctually the vicar appeared, followed by Mr. Yorkc and 
Mr. Leslie. He walked up the hall with his usual quick step 
and manly bearing, and, though thoroughly conscious that every 
eye was upon him, he gave no sign that he knew it. 

Now, the mayor had prepared a very bombastic speech by way 
of opening the proceedings, but the vicar had been too long master 
in his own parish to permit this. He stepped on to the platform 
and at once began to speak. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, courteously, his quick eye taking in 
nearly all the people of whom the audience was composed, “you 
have summoned me here to-night in order to hear my explanation 
of a great many scandalous reports that have arisen concerning 
me. As to most of them 1 beg to assure you that they are entirely 
false; and as to some of them I am now ready to answer, to the 
best of my ability, any questions you are pleased to put to me, re- 
serving my right to decline to answer any 1 see fit.” 

As soon as he had finished speaking, Mr. Leslie rose. 

*' Before any more is said,” he said, earnestly, “ I wish, as one 
of the church- wardens of the parish, to declare my most hearty 
disapproval of this meeting, and to assert that 1 require no explana- 
tion whatever from our good vicar, with wllose conduct in every 
respect 1 am more than satisfied.” 

An ominous silence followed this speech, except for V hear ” from 
Yorke. 

The mayor then began to speak, but his oration was too elabo- 
rate for the impatient audience. All sorts of questions addressed to 
the vicar interrupted its delivery. 

“ What did you go to the Cove for?” *' Are you innocent or 
guilty?” “Who is the woman?” “What business had you to 
visit her so often?” and so on, mixed with direct accusations and 
coarsest insinuations; for Ihe audience by no means consisted en- 
tirely of gentlemen, and more than one specimen of the British, 
workman, ia his Sunday clothes, sat grinning in a corner, admitted 
by favor of tbe verger. It was a time of intense pain to the vicar. 




THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 121 

l)ut he stood his ground as firmly as a rock, and faced his— good 
heaven 1— his friends. 

“1 think it would facilitate matters,” lie said, in his quietest 
voice — yet so as to be heard in every pari of the room— “ if ] were 
to make a statement to you, as it is utterly impossible for me to 
answer the unlooked-for number of your questions. 

“ A man and woman, with whom 1 was acquainted, came to 
Fisheiman’s Cove. Owing to his illness and her necessities 1 vis- 
ited them frequently; and on one or two occasions, of impoitanccto 
them, I met her out of doors. But 1 pledge you my most solemn 
word, as a clergyman and a gentleman, that nothing took place 
between us that was in llie slightest d6gree wrong.” 

‘‘Weren’t yei seen Kissing her through the window?” from a 
voice. 

“ Gentlemen,” continued the vicar, ‘‘ there are certain circum- 
stances which 1 cannot at present explain to you — most painful cir- 
■cusmstances— but again 1 pledge you my most sacred word that if 
you will have patience for six months 1'will then explain all to you. 
During this time, it you prefer it, 1 will go away, leaving the 
duty in Mr. Rowen’s hands.” 

Kow Mr. Rowen had altogether declined to be present, his mind 
as yet not being made up which side to take. 

“ That won’t do,” said the mayor, bluntly; ‘‘ you’re either fit to 
go or to stay. If you ’ave any excuse, give it; if not, you ’ad better 
go altogether. ” 

“Gentlemen, I have no more to say,” returned the vicar; “ I 
leave you to talk over this matter among yourselves.” 

He left the room followed by Mr. Yorke; Mr. Leslie remained. 

A babel of voices then arose. One said one thing, one another. 
Then Mr. Leslie at last made himself heard. 

“ 1 wonder you’re not all ashamed of this,” he said, “ after all 
Mr. Manley has done in this parish, and what he has made of it.” 

Conflicting voices, “ kissing,” heard. 

“And,” he continued, hi3 zeal having now completely outrun 
his discretion, “if I knew that he kissed every married woman in 
the parish, 1 yet wouldn’t believe he did it in the way of harm.” 

“ You may like your wife kissed,” said one; “ 7dcn’t like mine.*' 

“How do we know she wasn’t his cousin? How do we know 
she wasn’t his grandmother?" ictorted Mr. Leslie. 

A roar of laughter followed, in the midst of which Mr. Leslie 
walked cut. But his speech caused the quieter members of the 
audience to consult together. 


122 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ Had be a sister?” they asked. 

It was, however, decided that this was impossible; no one had 
ever heard him mention a sister, while he had often spoken cpen- 
ly of his brothers. 

Certain members of the congregation then clustered together, 
headed by Admiral Hatton, and after much talking cnme to~ the 
conclusion they would at once send a note to the vicar, asking him 
to resign or exchange his living; failing this, they would appeal to 
the bishop. He was to give them his decision on Monday. But 
before their messenger had left the vicarage gate he was recalled, 
while the vicar wrote his answer. It was transcribed hurriedly, 
his firm handwriting ending in dashes. 

Mr. Manley would not resign; the congregation should appeal to 
the bishop. 


CHAPTER XXI Y. 

HEART-BURNINGS. 

The vicar administered the communion, as usual, at eight 
o’clock the next morning. But the number of communicants was 
but small, and he was fully conscious it was because many of his 
parishioners would not now receive it from his hands. 

As he came into church at eleven, behind the choir and the cu- 
rate, he was again aware that every eye was upon him to see how 
he was bearing his troubles. There was a great sadness on his face, 
but, with the exception of the time when the Creeds were read, 
not once did he turn away from the congregation, or cover his 
face with his hand. His bearing was dignified and reverent, as it 
had ever been, and he seemed absorbed by the service. His sermon 
was plain and practical, as usual, delivered in his most earnest 
manner. Now a brother clergyman of his, on being most unjustly 
assailed by Ms parishioners, had preached from the text, “ Be not 
afraid of them, neither be afraid of their words; though briers and 
thorns be with thee, and thou dost dwell among scorpions,” and 
had launched out at his people in such a manner that a joke imme- 
diately circulated throughout the place, 41 Art you a scorpion cr a 
thorn?” But to make use of his pulpit in such a manner would 
have been to Mr. Manley simply desecration. His reverence for the 
church itself had always been very marked; he had entirely declined 
giving out notices of church entertainments, etc., therein, which 
at first the church-wardens had requested him to do; and to preach 
at his people, instead of to them, was what he could not have done. 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH, 


123 

Ethel Hatton was not in church— she felt she could not face him. 

After the congregation had dispersed, the vicar and Mr. Leslie 
satood outside the vestry door, looking down at the shipping and the 
beautiful sea in the distance. 

“ *• Where every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile,’ ” 

said the church- warden, laying moSl abundant energy on the word 
vile, and shaking his list at the backs of the departing congregation. 

Mr. Manley smiled. 

4 * Their rendering would be— 

“ ‘ Where every prospect pleases, 

And only the Vicar is vile.’ ” 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Leslie, indignantly, *' 1 feel like the man — . 
Julius Ctesar, wasn’t it?— who said he wished all Rome had but one 
neck, so that he could cut off its head. Oh, wasn’t it Julius Caesar? 
Well/ it was some other fellow then; 1 never was up in history.” 

“ 1 have heard the speech attributed to another man,” said the 
vicar; “ but it is well you can not carry out your wishes. 1 am 
not anxious to preach to empty walls.” 

He felt it as a relief to speak lightly for a few moments, his heart 
•was so very sore. His usual Sunday duty was very heavy; in- 
deed, on one occasion, Mrs. Leslie had made it an actual subject of 
complaint. 

V 1 assure you it quite worries me to think of all you do on Sun- 
day, while we are enjoying ourselves. Early communion, open- 
ing of Sunday-schools, eleven o’c^ck service, communion again, 
'opening cf afternoon school, afternoon service, christening, Bible- 
_ class, and evening service. It is entirely too much. The four 
services a day are quite enough for any two men.” 

‘‘You should not waste your sympathy in that unnecessary 
manner,” he had replied. 

“Iam quite aware that you don’t thank me, Mr. Manley, but I 
repeat, it is too much.” 

“ 1 can rest on Monday.” 

‘* You ought, but do you?” 

He smlied. 

”1 have no doubt 1 do not do a great many things that 1 
ought.” 

But on this Sunday the vicar made over the whole afternoon 


124 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

duty to Mr. Rowen, with the exception of opening the schools. He 
spoke a few kindly words, placing his hand on the heads cf one 
or two of the little hoys as he often did, and making some pleasant 
remark to them, anti then he went to the vicarage. \ 

He locked his study door, and remained alone until it was lime 
to prepare for evening service, when he appeared at the church, 
looking calm and grave and at peace. 

On her road home Miss Hatton met Mr. Rowen. 

“And what did you mean by not supporting your vicar ft the 
meeting last night, Mr. Rowen?” she said, sharply. 

The unfortunate curate reddened, and was heard to murmur 
something about “ Admiral Hatton,” and “ your father.” 

“ Oh, yes, I know my father was against him; and though I 
don’t agree with my father in the least, still he thought he had 
grounds. Pray, what grounds have you ?” 

' “Really — really,” stammered Mr. Rowen. 

“ Of course not; 1 knew you had none. And after all the kind’ 
ness he has shown you too. If 1 have heard him stand up for you 
once, 1 have fifty times. And a nice return you have made!” 

This roused even Mr. Rowen. 

“ And how do you know I do not intend to support him, Miss 
Hatton? t had not made up my mind last night.” 

“ You had tetter be quick about it,” she returned. “ If, after 
all you know of Mr. Manley, you can’t make up your mind now, 
you certainly never will. X for one shall be thoroughly ashamed 
of you, if you desert him.” 

There is sometimes a great power in directness of speech when 
thoroughly sincere; Mr. Rowen made up his mind that he would 
stand by his vicar. 

The Hatton family were now in a most uncomfortable condi- 
tion. The admiral was thoroughly cross, Mrs. Hatton disappointed 
and vexed, Miss Hatton intensely indignant, and Ethel intensely 
wretched. In her own mind Mrs. Hatton deserved the most sym- 
pathy. The others had sentimental giievances, she a tangible cne. 
Here was Ethel deliberately throwing away a chance of getting 
well settled in life. The vicar was a nice, kind man, came of a good 
family, and had fully five hundred a year, which in these hard 
times was a very good prospect for a penniless girl. What would, 
her daughters have to live on when their father died, she would 
like to know? There was no provision made for them. Go out 
as governesses? Ridiculous. It was a wretched life, and for 
every situation there were at least fifty applicants. Oh, it was 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 125 

cruel, to throw away their chances as they were doing! There was 
Gertrude, deliberately snubbing Mr. Campbell, wlic was well oil, 
that is for a naval officer. Every one knew that army and navy 
people were poor, but so proud; and how much better to keep up 
your pride with money. Perhaps the vicar had been a little foolish. 
Well— he was a young man, and couldn’t always be a saint. If he 
did kiss the woman, probably there was no harm in it— it might 
have been a sudden impulse, and he would not do such a thing 
when he had a wife of his own. As for the manner in which the 
admiral was raving about him, it was simply absurd. Oh, there 
was nothing but trouble! Instead of Ethel being married in Sep- 
tember, she would be now always at home, and all the Christmas 
bills would be coming in, and she was sure she didn’t know what 
every one was going to do. Ethel miserable? If she was misera- 
ble she had nothing tc do but to make it up again with Mr. Man- 
ley. He was always so kind and so fond of her that he would do 
anything she asked him. 

“If she asked him from now till next week he wouldn’t take 
her back, mother,” said Miss Hatton— “ not it she went on her 
knees to him.” 

“ Nonsense,” returned Mrs. Hatton. 

“ He wouldn’t; l am sure of it. And why should he? Girls 
are not so scarce that he couldn’t get another wife if he pleased. 
He must be sick of girls.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE PROJECTED APPEAL. 

Finding that Mr. Manley had resolved not to resign, another 
meeting was summoned by the mayor and Admiral Hatton, for the 
purpose of preparing an appeal to the bishop. On being informed 
of this by Mr. Leslie, Mr. Yorke at once went down to Temple- 
more to see Captain Vincent. He found Mr. Fortescue there also. 

“ What do you want me to do?” asked Captain Vincent, when 
the case had been stated to him. “ 1 liked what 1 saw of Mr. Man- 
ley very much; still we know perfectly well that there are black 
sheep among clergymen, and many of them.” 

“ That man isn’t one,” said Mr. Fortescue, with determination. 
“ 1 am not a parson-lover myself, but 1 know him to be a good 
man. I can see it in his face, a hypocrite never had his expression 
yet.” 


126 THE BACHELOR YICAR OE NEWEORTH. 

“ Bupert,” said Mrs. Vincent, appealingly, “ do try to help him.” 

“ He needs help,” returned Yorke, gravely. 

“ I would help him if 1 could; if 1 had a living in mjr gift he 
should have it to-morrow,” said Mr. Fortescue, who rarely evinced 
any interest in any human being save his wife and child. 

“ 1 give in,” said Captain Vincent, “ as you are all against me. 
But, mind you, 1 only do so under pressure. 1 won’t go; I’ll 
write. The mayor was most obsequious to me one day when I 
went there officially; turned out the whole corporation to receive 
me, and 1 had to listen to the vilest speech it ever was my lot to 
hear. Added to which, a most odious brass band played complete- 
ly out of tune.” 

Y orke laughed. 

“ That band is well known in Newtorth; it is Manley’s mortal 
aversion; but occasionally, by way of honoring him, they play just 
under his windows.” 

“ Do you think it would do any good to ask the mayor over 
here— horrid old wretch as he is?” said Mis. Vincent. 

“ 1 can’t stand that, my child,” said her husband; “ you must 
help Mr. Manley some other way. I can’t hear at my table, ‘ Y'our 
'ealth, Captain Vincent, and ’appiness to 3 r our good lady,’ and look 
up to see the butlei grinning at my elbow.” 

“He wouldn’t grin long,” said Mrs. Vincent, “or a second 
lime,” for Captain Vincent ruled his household most completely. 

So Yorke was compelled to depart accompanied only by a note, 
■which was very short. He gave it to Mr. Leslie, who, when the 
meeting was at its stormiest (tor every one wanted something 
-different), presented it to the mayor. The contents were that Cap- 
tain Vincent would take it as a personal favor if no appeal were 
made to the bishop for the present. 

“ Who’s Captain Vincent, 1 should like to know, that he should 
dictate to me?” thundered Admiral Hattop. “ A man who was a 
captain in the army, ranking with a junior lieutenant, talking to 
me, an admiral in the British Navy.” 

“ Allow me to observe, in the most delicate manner in the 
world,” said Mr. Leslie who was now at daggers-drawn with his 
co-church- warden. 

“Don’t. make use of your boatswain’s quotations,” interposed 
the admiral. 

“ Allow me to observe, in the most delicate manner in the 
world,” repeated Mr. Leslie, coolly, “that although, according to 
your somewhat surprising ideas, Captain Vincent may only rank 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


127 


with a -junior lieutenant in the navy, he is, in addition, our county 
member — a member of great influence in the House, and a man oi 
great wealth and good famly. And although 1 do not mean to 
insinuate for one moment that these advantages collectively are to 
be compared with the honor of being an admiral in the British 
Navy he spoke these words very slowly— “ still 1 think he has 
some claim to ask a personal favor if he chooses.” 

“ My surmising ideas!” said the admiral, in wrath, and losing 
most of the remainder of the speech in his indignation at this 
sentence; 14 they are the Queen's ideas, the Nation's ideas. Where 
would you be now without the navy?” 

44 Probably where I am now; and 1 don't in the least care if I 
wasn’t. 1 don’t find it so remarkably pleasant as all that ”— and 
Mr. Leslie went away. 

But though the admiral was not impressed, the other members of 
the meeting were; they broKe up with the resolution that they 
would do as Captain Vincent had requested, and defer their appeal 
to the bishop. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

ESTRANGEMENT. 

Ethel' Hatton was suffering greatly. In going over their Iasi 
interview she could not see that she had acted otherwise than right- 
ly; for how could she keep up the same respect for Mr. Manley; 
but, at the same time, her love seemed to her greater than ever. 
She regretted every cold word and tone she had ever given him, 
and would gladly have recalled them. She thought of his face, 
his expression, his unvarying kindness and tenderness to her, and 
her heart ached. Once or twice she made up her mind that she 
could not bear it, that she must ask him to overlook what had 
taken place, and she on her part would do the same; and she 
would certainly have done it but for the conviction deep down in 
her heart that he would not overlook it, that he would not again 
receive her. To remain in Newforth was dreadful to her. She 
longed, and yet feared to meet him. She could not go to church 
in comfort, she could not walk out. So she arranged a visit to 
some relations at a distance and went away. 

The vicar observed that the week-day congregations were per- 
ceptibly lessening. But this was not owing to his loss of influence, 
had he only known it, but because the ladies, meeting on the road 


128 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE HEWFORTH. 


to church, began to quarrel so vigorously as to the rights of the 
case that very often they would turn away at the very church- 
doors, not feeling themselves in a fit frame of mind to enter. 

But by degrees he could not fail to see that the pcison was slow- 
ly working; one looked another way when he passed, and another 
cut him dead; and a third was cold and reserved, till at last the 
only houses where he received the same cordial welcome as of old 
were those ot Mr. Yoike and Mr. Leslie. He went about with a 
heavy heart, but he neglected no duty in consequence, although he 
perceived that in the poorer districts his good influence was entire- 
ly gone. At last one day when rebuking a man — with the same 
gentleness which it was ever his wont to display when rebuke was 
required— for living in open immortality, he was received with a 
jeer and told that “ the pot need not call the kettle black.” 

An impulse cf anger, such as had not overcome him for years, 
caused the vicar to put out his strong right hand to knock the man 
down, but he withdrew it instantly to his side, saying, quietly, 
'“ You are mistaken, my man; you will know better one day.” 

But after this he knew that the time had arrived for him to go. 


CHAPTER XXV 11. 

MR. MANLEY RESIGNS 

The vicar’s decision to resign was communicated to a meeting 
called for the purpose of hearing it by Mr. Leslie. 

“We don’t want to be so ’ard on him as that,” said the mayor; 
“let him exchange.” 

“ If he isn’t fit for us, why should he be fit for another parish?” 
Tetorted Mr. Leslie. “ Between you all you will drive him out of 
England.” 

“ We don’t wish that,” said Admiral Hatton, whose anger had 
considerably cooled. 

Mr. Yorke was present. 

“ l am a witness against you,” he said, gravely, “ that you have 
done as unfortunate a deed for yourselves in driving away your 
vicar as it was in your power to do. The day will come when you 
will regret it. Has he not been as your best friend to every one 
cf you?” 

“ You needn’t rush at us so, Mr. Yorke,” said the mayor, un- 
comfortably— though Yorke’s somewhat stately speech was the 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


129 


very reverse of “ rushing.” “ Perhaps we 'am been a little ’asty. 
Well, if so, we can call him back.” 

44 Do you suppose that such a man as Mr. Manky would come 
at your recall?” said Yorke, with some scorn in his voice. 

The matter had been fully discussed between him and the vicar. 

*‘ Y T ou are right, Phil; you must go,” said his friend, with deep 
regret; 44 but don’t be too proud to exchange with some one else.” 

“ I will not go into any parish with a slur on my name,” re- 
turned the vicar. 

Now Yorke was well aware that his friend had no private means, 
and had lived fully up to his income. 

”1 do hope you are not going to take pupils, Phil,” he said. 

44 Certainly not. 1 purpose devoting myself to mission work 
abroad, in which 1 have always taken the greatest interest.” 

44 Missions! become a missionary?” said Yorke, much concerned. 
41 Oh, don’t do that, Phil. A man of your culture and attainments 
would be quite thrown away on savages.” 

‘‘ I do not know that mission work is of necessity among .savages; 
but I am of opinion that, inasmuch as they are in some respects 
like children; a cultivated man is by no means thrown away among 
them. It requires, 1 believe, a cultivated man to teach children.” 

' 4 They are not like children,” said Y'orke, warmly. 41 Take our 
Australian aborigines, for example— dirty, degraded wretches, al- 
most incapable of civilization.” 

But this speech had a totally different effect to that intended by 
Mr. Yorke. The vicar’s heart was so full of love to his fellow- 
men— for the sake of a higher love — that immediately he felt a 
strange pity toward those poor creatures in Australia. 

44 1 will put myself in connection with the Church Missionary 
Society,” he said. 44 1 might as well go to Australia as anywhere 
else.” 

Long and earnestly did Yorke try to dissuade him, but to no 
purpose. It was a case of 44 when Greek meets Greek.” 

44 You will do no good whatever,” said Yorke; ”1 have seen 
plenty of them, and 1 know what I am talking about.” 

44 1 can Out try.” 

Indeed, this was about the worst argument that Mr. Yorke could 
have used— Ihe mere mention cf a difficulty made the vicar anxious 
to overcome it. He now entered into the project with aidor. 

44 There is only one advantage that 1 see in this mad scheme,” 
said Yorke at length. 

44 What is that?” 

5 


130 THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWFORTH. 

“That you can go out with us,” for the Yorkes were on the 
eve of returning to Australia; “and when your mission work is 
proved hopeless — which 1 know it will be — you can stay with us 
for an indefinite period (Australians always keep open house), until 
these wiseacres of Newforth have seen their error, and you can re- 
turn in triumph to another parish. In one way 1 am very glad 
you are going to leave England for a time.” 

“ Why?” 

“Oh, nothing; only an idea,” returned Yorke, vaguely. 

About this time a distant relative of the vicar’s died, leaving 
him a most unexpected and, as he termed it, providential, legacy of 
£400. Never was money mere welcome. The income he would 
receive, it any, from the Church Missionary Society would, he 
knew, be barely sufficient to cover his actual wants: he could now 
take his own passage — which he purposed doing in the mail with 
the Yorkes— and be his own mastei, as far as funds were con- 
cerned. The loss of his income troubled him but little, but the 
loss of his church — his dearly loved church — and ot his reputation, 
troubled him greatly. Had it not been for the missionary ardor 
which had now taken possession of him, he felt as if he could not 
have borne up so bravely. For he bore up very biavely. 

A partial reaction had set in in his favor, harder to bear than the 
former ill-will; for it went no further than this: “ As he is going 
away, let us make the best of it while he is here;’’ and he knew 
that they would be glad when he was gone. The living was to be 
given to Mr. Rowen, through the intervention of the bishop, v«ho 
knew Mr. Manley well, and was not without secret hopes that 
matters might yet be cleared up, and that he would one day return. 
But even to his bishop Mr. Manley had entered into no explana- 
tion. He was anxious to leave without delay and join the Vorkes 
in London, whither they had now gone, knowing that procrastina- 
tion was bad for all parties concerned. His arrangements were 
quickly made, and he piepared to leave Newforth— for good. 


CHAPTER XNVIII. 

HIS FAREWELL. 

It was on a Saturday that the vicar prepared to pay his farewell 
visits— few enough, alas! in number. On Suday evening ht was 
to preach bis farewell sermon, and leave Newforth early on Mon- 
day morning. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


131 


He first called on Mrs. Leslie whose very distress at his departure 
caused her to assume a coldness she was tar from feeling; but 
Mr. Manley was a man who saw below the surface. He shook 
both her hands heartily, and thanked her tor all the kindness he 
had received from both her and her husband; and then he asked 
for her children, and kissed them afiectionately, giving them each 
some toy. 

“ Come back soon, Mr. Manley,” said little Isabel; but how 
could he say he would do so? 

On leaving Mrs. Leslie’s he met Mrs. Hatton. He stopped. 

44 "Will you shake hands with me before l^go, Mis. Hatton?” he 
asked, with his old, pleasant smile on his face. 

44 Of course 1 will,” she replied. 

“ I am very glad to have met you. 1 could not call to say good- 
bye, after the admiral forbidding me your house. But will you 
tell him from me that 1 trust he will one day see matters in a 
different light; and give him my kind regards, if he will accept 
them. Also ’’—after a pause—” to Miss Hatton, and a longer 
pause — ” and to Ethel.” 

“1 am sure it is very good of you,” said Mrs. Hatton; ” and 
why every one has been made so wretched, and why you could not 
have stayed and married Ethel, I’m sure 1 don’t know. Well, 
good-bye, my dear, arid 1 hope you’ll be happy.” 

At the entrance to the town he met Captain and Mrs. Vincent. 

” If there ever was a henpecked husband in this world it is I,” 
Captain Vincent had been saying to his wile, knowing that he 
could well afford to jest on this point. 44 Here am 1 dragged no 
end of a distance to say good-bye tc a man 1 don’t care a straw 
about.” 

** How do you do, Mr. Manley?” he said, graciously as the vicar 
approached. 44 We are glad to have met you.” 

44 We came over on purpose,” said Mrs. Vincent, 44 and we wish 
you every happiness in the new life to which you are going, and 
we are very sorry to lose you.” 

“ The town will always remember you with gratitude,” he re- 
turned, 44 when the peal of bells is heard.” 

44 The town wouldn’t have had them but for you” she replied; 
44 1 wish you had remained to hear them.” 

44 1 wish I could,” he returned, gravely, and bade them farewell. 

His poorer neighbors he had already visited, and now, out of all 
this large town of Newforth there was no other house at which he 
purposed calling. He looked up at the spire In passing; the build- 


132 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

mg was going on as fast as possible, and then it did seem hard that 
he who had been the sole oiiginator, the prime mover in the busi- 
ness, should not be allowed to remain to see its completion. 

It was now time to prepare his sermon. He shut himself in his 
study, and began to think. It is needless to say that during the 
entire week many ol ail his best thoughts had been given toward 
that sermon; but now these seemed to leave him, and a strange 
and unusual bitterness came over him. He thought of the parish 
as il had been on his arrival, and of what it was now. He thought 
of the many good works he had originated and carried on, of how 
his entiie heart, and thoughts, and time, and energies had been 
directed to his work. And this was his reward— to be, in effect, 
turned out by those whom he had benfited so greatly ! But no 
sooner had these ideas passed through his mind than he remem- 
bered the Apostle Paul-thought of all his zeal and persecutions 
and martyrdom; and after thinking thus he exclaimed, in deep 
humility, “ What am / beside such a man as he?” It was in this 
frame that he composed his sermon, which, though to be principal- 
ly extemporaneous, was well thought out. 

He chose for his text the words of the same apostle: “ And now, 
beheld, I know that ye all, among whom I have gone preaching the 
kingdom of God, shall see my face no more.” But it was not of 
himself — his own works, his own wrongs, his own departure— that 
he spoke. He spok3 of St. Paul, and how gigantic was the work 
he did, compared to that of the present ministers of the chuich, 
and how they might well feel humble beside him; but his congre- 
gation applied the parallel differently, and, erring as they thought 
him, were still visibly moved. Then, in one sentence only, he 
bade them farewell, with a perceptible tremor in his voice; for he 
had loved his people greatly' 

In the last pew in the church sat Ethel, who had returned the 
night befere. She sobbed silently during the entire sermon. He 
would be gone on the morrow, and she— she whom he had loved 
before all the world -would be the only one who was not permitted 
to wish him farewell. 

“ 1 must see him, Gertrude,” she said. “ 1 will g) to the vicar- 
age sooner than not do so.” 

“ You shall not go,” said Mis 3 Hatton. " If you have any'real 
affection left tor him.— and he deserves far more than you ever gave 
him— you will sacrifice your own wishes, and not add to his pain, 
when he must be feeling so much. Besides, what could you say 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEW FORTH. 


133 


if you did see him? You have no faith in him, and you can’t ask 
him to marry you. 1 don’t see what you could say.” 

But Ethel’s sobs at last made her sister relent. 

“ I tell you what,” she said, “it he has any remnant of liking 
left for you at all, though i^dare say he hasn’t, he won't go with- 
out having a last look at our house. I will watch for him this 
evening— 1 want to say good-bye to him myself, and you can take 
a look at him; but, remember, you are not to speak.” 

With this poor comfort Ethel was forced to be content. The 
evening was cold and dark; the two girls put on thick shawls, and 
Walked up and down the garden walk which skirted the lane. 

On leaving the church the vicar — vicar for the last time, he 
thought— had paced up and flown his garden, lost in thought. And 
then, the memory of his love coming strongly over him, he thought 
he could not leave the place without looking once more at the house 
where he had known so much happiness. It was quite dark— no 
one would see him ; Jbut the Misses Hatton heard his well-known 
footsteps. 

“ Kneel down by the hedge; quick, Ethel, out of sighi,” whis- 
pered her sister. “ You sha’n't speak to him to make him more 
wretched. Do 3^>u hear what 1 say?” 

Ethel oueyed. 

“Mi. Manley,” exclaimed Miss Hatton, “come here and say 
good-bye to me over the hedge.” 

“Good-bye, Miss Hatton,” he said, gravely. “I shall always 
remember you with the deepest gratitude, and 1 trust you may meet 
wilh the happy future you deserve.” 

He shook hands warmly, but, ere he cculd go,, two hands— two 
soft, small hands, the touch of which he knew well— caught hold 
of his right hand, and he felt a kiss imprinted, while it became 
wet with tears. He could not trust himself to speak; he turned 
away suddenly, and walked down the lane. But before he had 
reached the end he placed his hand on his face, its back to his 
cheek, and kisBed the teai-drop that touched his lips. 

“The last of my weakness,” he said; and he would fain have 
been spared this additional pain. 

Then he went into the church— the dark, quiet, solemn church 
—across which a faint ray of moonlight was struggling, and there 
he remained one hour. The moonlight was on the shipping and 
the harbor when he went up to his room. 

“ I have bidden farewell to Newforth now,” he said. 

Mr. Leslie and Mr. Kowen saw him off the next morning, the 


134 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HE WORTH. 

latter under the impression that he had done his duty to his vicar 
like a man. But he would now himself be “ the vicar,” and it 
would scarcely have been in human nature if he had not held his 
head a little higher in consequence. 

Mr. Manley kept up cheerfully to ihe last, saying, as he grasped 
]$r. Leslie’s hand, ”1 dare say you will say of me, ‘ We could 
have better spared a better man/ I know that 1 shall not be for- 
gotten by you, so you know you will not be forgotten by me.” 

‘‘1 shall say nothing of the kind,” returned Mr. Leslie, ‘‘be- 
cause there is no better man tc be found in the three kingdoms.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

AUSTRALIAN LIFE. 

It was not until they were fairly on their voyage that Torke 
breathed freely. 

“ 1 lived in dread, Phil, lest you should be had up for conspiring 
to defeat the ends of justice,” he said. 

44 That idea never once occurred to me,” safd Mr. Manley. 

44 1 am very glad 1 did not suggest it; 1 assure you it was con- 
stantly on my mind.” 

‘‘Ah, Torke, you are a true friend!” returned Mr. Manley, 
warmly. ' 4 One half of one’s friends add vastly to one’s troubles 
by suggesting evils. Are you sure 1 was in danger of this?” 

‘‘Not^quite sure, but very nearly.” 

Mr. Manley paced up and down the deck thoughtfully ; he was 
thankful he had not known of this additional lear. He was very 
grave, very thoughtful now, though that courtesy which had ever 
been so prominently displayed by him was net given up. Many of 
the passengers would have been glad to make lriends with him, 
but he did not care to make friends. 

Their destination was Adelaide, from which city Torke’s station 
was distant some three hundred miles. Mr. Manley purposed 
accompanying him and his wife and child thither, and remaining 
until all arrangements tor going toward the interior had been made. 
He had received all necessary information and directions from the 
Church Missionary Society, and was to advance a considerable dis- 
tance up the country, in company with a Scripture reader, who 
understood something of the natives, and another helper. 

The station life pleased Mr. Manley greatly. Torke was very 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEW FORTH, 


135 


well off, and lived in good style in the bush. His house was large, 
and most hospitably kept ; his horses tvere good and numerous; his 
gardens were in perfection. The show of hot-house flowers, grow- 
ing, almost untended, in bushes in the open air, surprised Mr. 
Manley; he admired them greatly. But it was in vain that both 
Mr. and Mrs. Yorke would have had him prolong his stay when 
once he had heard he could proceed. 

“It is work that 1 want,” he said; 41 really hard work.” 

“ You will have it in plenty,” said Yorke to himself, dismally; 
“hard woik^and depressing work, and fruitless work, and dis- 
gusting work!” for Yorke was not a missionary sympathizer. 

However, Mr. Manley departed, nothing daunted, carrying with 
him a brave heart anil unbounded energy. There was a tribe— a 
peaceful tribe enough— among whom no work had as yet been 
done; they were roc far oft. To them Mr. Manley and his helpers 
were to go. The nearest settlement or town to them would be 
Campertown; by a stream thirty miles beyond they pitched their 
tent, and soon managed to erect a couple of rude huts, with the 
assistance of their nearest neighbors. 

Mr. Manley was prepared to undergo any hardships; he had 
counted the cost fully before leaving England, and knew it would 
be considerable, but not for a moment did he flinch. 

The blacks, certainly, impressed him most unfavorably; their 
habits were so disgusting, their minds so dense! But Mr. Manley's 
idea was to teach the children more especially, and to train them 
to tetter things. With them his influence was great; they would 
run to him, their fathers and mothers looking on in stolid indiffer- 
ence, squatting about in groups on theii blankets and smoking. 
He endeavored to teach by example rather than precept, and would 
often perform small kindnesses and bestow small gifts on them. 

His coadjutors he liked fairly well; they were well-meaning men, 
though no companions, in the best sense of the word. They pre- 
pared the untempting meals, fer which they at times procured sup- 
plies from Campertown, and taught one or two ot a tfae native women 
to help them in cooking. 

The natives evidently looked on them with a friendly but most 
indifferent eye. It occurred to Mr. Manley that, as there was no 
translation of any portion of the Bible in their tongue— their dialect 
considerably differing from that of most of the tribes — he would 
endeavor to translate St. John into their heathenish phrase; but 
the labor 'was enormous, for their sounds were barely articulate. 
He would not give in, however; he worked on bravely, smiling 


IP) 6 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEW FORTH. 

with the same pleasantness at the children, and trying his hardest 
to restrain the disgust which sometimes would arise within him. 
Letters from England reached him; some from Mr. Leslie, at Xew- 
forth, telling him how the spire was now finished, and the peal of 
bells had been rung. He did not answer them; he was not anxious 
to continue any connection with his old life— the life when he had 
been the honored, beloved Vicar of Newfortli. What was he now? 
But he said himself that he was now more fully honored, inasmuch 
as he was counted worthy to suffer. His cheeks were growing 
very hollow, but his words were cheery and bright. Trouble he 
never spared himself, nor fatigue nor toil, when it could benefit 
others; his life was purely unselfish. He seemed to disregard all 
discomfort — which, to a gently born English gentleman, must have 
been very great— and to think only of his work. 

Yorke had proposed taking a journey to see him, though it was 
a very long distance, but for this he was not anxious; he knew it 
would unsettle him. Then there arrived a day when his two help- 
ers came to him and said that, from most unmistakable signs, they 
were of opinion that an untrrendly influence was beginning to 
work among the tribe, and they considered it was nc longer safe 
to live among them. They wished to return to regions more civil- 
ized. But to Mr. Manley this seemed like putting hrs hand to the 
plow and drawing back. They might go, he said, but be should 
remain. He still had hopes he was doing good. 

“ Vou can not remain alone,” they said; but he was firm that 
he would not go. 

So, with manifest reluctance, they departed; and when he had 
seen the last of them his heart seemed to sink within him, but only 
temporarily. His courage returned, his will remained indomitable; 
henceforth he would labor alone. And so this advanced Christian, 
this accomplished and intellectual man, this cultivated and finished 
gentleman, was left alone in the midst of black, heathen savages. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

MR. RO WEN’S TROUBLES. 

Matters had not improved in Newforth. The new vicar was 
totally incapable to bold the reins of government with the firm 
hand which had characterized the dealings of Mr. Manley. In 
this world there is nothing so hardly visited as weakness. Mr. 
Rowen lived in fear and trembling. 




THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEW FORTH. 137 

To begin with, bis lady helpers tormented him out of his very 
life. Whereas Mr. Mauley would have had his own way, without 
a dissentient voice, Mr. Rowen, in trying to adopt every one’s way, 
was In the position of the old man with the ass. In trying to please 
every one he pleased no one. He began to dislike the very sound 
ot his late vicai’s name. It was always, “ VVe can't do that, Mr. 
Rowen; Mr. Manley never asked us;” or, ‘‘What a much better 
system there was in Mr. Manley’s time.” fc$o often, indeed, were 
speeches of this kind made, that at last Mr. Rowen was goaded into 
retorting it was a great pity that they had .driven so much perfec- 
tion as Mr. Manley aw ay. 

“Tes, it is,” returned Miss Hatton; ‘‘and we have only re- 
gretted it once, and that is always .” 

INow, the only lady for whom the new vicar had the smallest 
liking was Miss Hatton; who snubbed him unmercifully. He w as 
terribly afraid ot her, but he admired her. The attentions with 
which Mr. Manley was persecuted were not extended to him; the 
girls laughed at his tall, ungainly figure, his awkward gait, and 
his hesitating manner. 

He had thought it would be a delightful post to be a vicar, but, 
lo! his path was full cf thorns. Even the verger did net hesitate 
to dictate to him openly; and the cook — for Mrs. Jonson had re 
mained at the vicarage— did not scruple io inform him that he 
could not have as good a dinner as he wished (he being far more 
particular as to his creature comforts than Mr. Manley), or she 
would have nothing to give to the poor. 

He once exclaimed, under his breath, “Bother the poor!” but 
this fact is only mentioned in the strictest confidence. 

He was imposed on by the working-classes right and left now 
that Mr. Manley was not there to discriminate between the claims 
of the really needy and impostors, and at last he learned to believe 
that all the poor were impostors, having been victimized so often. 
He always buttoned up his coat when he saw a poor woman ap- 
proaching, yet, at the same lime, was done with the greatest ease. 
Miss Hatton one day, on witnessing a proceeding of the kind, could 
barely restrain herself from calling him a tool. 

“1 tell you what it is, Mr. Rosven,” she said, decidedly, “if 
you are not firmer you will be got hold of and married by some 
widow before you know what you are doing, and what will be- 
come of you then?” 

“I should become a mairied man,” returned the vicar, with a 
feeble attempt at a joke, and blushing scarlet. 


138 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


“ You had better let me manage the district meetings for you,” 
she replied. 4 ‘ You are talked down, and no one listens to you.” 

“ Oh, if you would!” said ihe poor vicar, gratefully; ” and if — 
if there is any real need tor me I can be sent for.” 

'* But you must visit; be sure you visit. 1 will make out the 
list cf the houses you are to go to.” 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Rowen, meekly. 

In the solitude of his study he exclaimed, ” I shall be driven 
frantic by these women; it’s awful. One tells me to do one thing, 
and another another. 1 wish, w T ilh all my heart, that Manley was 
here to deal with them.” 

So, by degrees, his power went from him, as far as the richer 
classes were concerned. The church-wardens b(Uh bullied him in 
their different ways, Mr. Leslie having taken up the totally inde- 
fensible position that any vicar coming after Mr. Manley must be 
an intruder; and Admiral Hatton being rendered suspicious by his 
recent experience. 

The organist chose the hymns without even consulting the vicar, 
and, when mildly remonstrated with, replied that, in Mr. Manley’s 
time, there had been no fault found; knowing, as he spoke, that 
he would not, in Mr. Manley’s time, have ventured to choose the 
hymns. 

Mr. Rowen liked congregational singing; the choir preferred 
anthems and most elaborate and high-flown chants, in which none 
of the congregation could join, and have them they would, and 
did. They said they would resign in a body otherwise, and Mr. 
Rowen was afraid to tell them they were welcome to do so. 

The difficulty of reconciling his cross-grained affairs of every- 
day life with the elaborate, elevated language in which he had 
been wont to indulge caused* his sermons to become more obscure, 
and he tar oftener told his congregation that they “ all knew what 
he meant.” 

The communicants began to fall off in number, the offertories 
became smaller. That earnest zeal in the former vicar which had 
been at the root of the people’s zeal was now wanting. Mr. Rowen 
began to complain, and scold the congregation in his sermons. 
The falling off became more apparent. 

“ We never had one word of complaint flora Mr. Manley during 
the whole time he w T as with us,” they said. 

“Ah!” returned Mr. Leslie, triumphantly, ‘‘you are now be- 
ginning to find out what you have lost.” 

He had received one letler, and one only, fiom Mr. Manley, 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEW FORTH. 139 

written when lie first landed at/ Adelaide. But part of this letter 
was quite incomprehensible toJVlr. Leslie— a part in which Mr. 
Manley stated that, although he had never said as much in actual 
words, he deeply regretted the losses Mr. Leslie had sustained, hotv 
personally responsible in a measure he felt, and how grieved he 
had been. 

“ Perhaps he has had a sunstroke,” said Mr. Leslie, reflectively, 
“ and it has affected his brain. Row in the woild can he have 
anything to do with our losses?” 

” Ah, Frank!” said Mrs. Leslie, “ we shall never have such a 
vicar again.” 

“ You think a vast deal of him, .young woman!” 

‘‘ You may be quite sure, Frank,” returned Mrs. Leslie, laugh- 
ing, ‘‘that I should not praise him so openly if there was any 
harm in it. ^A woman of my aire— ” 

‘‘ You are not quite a Methuselah, my dear.” 

“ With two children—” 

‘‘And an attached husband,” he again interrupted. 

‘‘And an attacned husband, can say anything she pleases, 1 
should think.” 

“ Certainly, so long as she adds that she is attached to her 
husband.” 

‘‘I’ll say it now, Frank,” she said, with a laugh; ‘‘and who 
is also attached to her husband. Will that satisfy you?” 

“ Perfectly,” said Mr. Leslie, who, his wife knew, had been 
only joking. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE ADMIRALTY BALL. 

The “ Devastation ” had come to Seaforl, also Captain Worsley» 
who had brought his ship round from Plymouth. The Lord? of 
the Admiralty were coming to inspect, and the Admiralty ball was 
to take place. 

Mr. Campbell had again been taken into favor. Miss Hatton’s 
conscience had somewhat accused her for the series of snubs she 
had administered to him for so long a time past, and she now made 
herself very agreeable. 

That Mrs. Hatton and the girls were to go to the Admiralty ball 
was a matter of course. Ethel had declared her intention of stay- 
ing away — she had no heart for balls now; but her father contested 


140 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


the point so hotly that she gave way. He was not going himself; 
he was too old for balls, he said; but, in reality, being on half-pay, 
he was not overanxious to meet the admirals in command. 

Captain Worsley had come ever to dine previous to the ball— in 
uniform, of course, as the Lords of the Admiralty were to be 
present. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder if he were to propose to you to night, Ger- 
trude, ” said Ethel, as the two girls were dressing; “ he does noth- 
ing but follow you with his eyes.” 

‘‘1 hope he won’t to-night,” returned Miss Hatton, ‘‘because 
Mr. Campbell will be there, and it is so horridly awkward some- 
times to have two such— strings tc your bow.” 

“ Shall you accept him?” 

“ 1 really can’t say,” replied Miss Hatton, who was looking brill- 
iantly handsome in her white satin dress. “ You look very nice,” 
she said to Ethel; “ very nice, indeed; but as you are going, do 
look as it you enjoyed it.” 

“ 1 never enjoy anything now,” said Ethel, in a low voice. 

“ That’s not cf half so much consequence if you look cheerful. 
Why, gracious me! if all the people who are miserable were to look 
miserable, we should scarcely ever see a cheerful face. Every one 
has trouble of some sort or another.” 

Captain Worsley had secured Miss Hatton for three dances be- 
fore they started. 

‘‘No,” she said, firmly; ‘‘1 won’t promise you more.” 

‘‘There is always such a run on you,” grumbled that young 
man; ‘‘ however, it is awfully good of you to give me these.” 

Mr. Campbell had dined on shore at Seafort with a party of 
brother officers. Of late his hopes with regard to Miss Hatton 
had considerably revived; and now that Captain Worsley had 
again appeared od the scene, he thought it quite time to come for- 
ward, having made up his mind that he would be tolerably certain 
of being accepted. The dinner was of a somewhat convivial ual- 
me, many of the officers not having met one another for some 
time past. Mr. Campbell did full justice to the fare, and moie than 
justice lo the wine. 

“ Have a care, Campbell,” whispered his neighbor, as he saw 
the young man again replenish his glass; “official ball, and all 
that sort of thing, don’t you know?” 

“ All right,” returned Mr. Campbell, “ I’ll be as sober as a lord. 

“ I thought it was as drunk as a lord,” said his friend. 

But while the dessert was on the table Mr. Campbell brought 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP HEWPORTII. 141 

forward Miss Hatton’s name in a manner he certainly would not 
have done had he been quite himself. 

“ 1 say she’s the best girl, and the prettiest girl, and the jolliest 
girl in the kingdom, let any one deny it if he dares!” he assevei- 
ated. 

No one apparently wished to deny it, but several amused and 
one or two anxious glances were given him by the company, who 
were all young men of admirable character. 

“ I’ll bet you a sovereign,” said one, “ that she won’t have you 
if you ask her.” 

“ Done!”, returned Mr. Campbell, promptly; " and I’ll give you 
two to one all round the table, it you like.” 

“ Done!” they all replied, and booked the bet. 

” I will ask her to-night,” he continued. 

“ We won’t hold you to a day or two, old fellow,” said one; 
'* within a week will do.” 

On their way to the ball a quiet word passed round among them- 
selves. 

“ He’s right enough now,” said one afterward; and continued, 
turning to Mr. Campbell, “ I say, you had belter not go in for too 
much champagne to-night or perhaDS you will lose your bet.” 

** So much the better for you,” retuined Mr. Campbell. 

It was greatly to Miss Hatton’s surprise that at the ball she be- 
held Mr. Rowen, for it was not his custom to attend balls. He 
did not dance, but sat down and watched her, enduring grinding 
torments. He was now so much in love that he literally could noi 
keep away, his ardor having vastly increased since Miss Hatton 
had relieved him of so much of the management of parish affairs, 
and he knew that he would be kept in countenance to night by 
the dock-yard chaplain. But not a word did he say to that gentle- 
man; he sat in a corner and fixed his eyes on his charmer. 

Mr. Campbell and the officers with whom he had dined were 
present when she arrived. Before Mr. Campbell could say a 
word, she found herself besieged, and her card entirely filled. 

“ What dance are you going to give me?” he asked, when he 
could obtain a hearing. 

“ I’m really very sorry, but 1 haven’t one, unless I engage my- 
self twice ovei. Well, perhaps 1 can do that; I will try and do so, 
anyhow.” 

He departed very savage, and made his way to the refreshment- 
room. 

“ I flatter myself we did that neatly,” said one of his friends: 


142 THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 

“ if she had cared a button about him she would have reserved him 
a couple of dances.” 

Meantime Miss Hatton had taken pity on the vicar. 

” Aren’t you going to dance, Mr. Rowen?” she asked. 

“lam not,” he answered, dismally. 

“ Are you going to have any supper?” 

“If you will come too.” 

‘‘I can’t now, but 1 will soon. Ves, 1 really will. Come for 
me in half an hour.” 

So when halt an hour was over the vicar discovered her on the 
point of waltzing. She turned from her partner at once. 

“ So sorry, but 1 am engaged to Mr. Rowen for this,” and, 
bowing slightly took his arm. 

By some chance he procured her a seat in the corner of the sup 
perroom, and when she had been duly refreshed, she had some 
grapes. Now, as every one knows, if you choose to be a whole day 
eating a bunch of grapes, you can; and Miss Hatton, knowing that 
her remaining dance with Captain YVorsley would not come oft fer 
some time, was quite content to remain laughing and talking with 
Mr. Rowen. 

But he, poor man, had none of the ready ease of the man of the 
world displayed by the late vicar. He could only talk on one 
subject, and that was Church and Church affairs. He began to 
tell her of a purchase of cloth he had made for the working party, 
from a poor, shipwrecked sailor, who had secured this portion of 
goods from the wreck; it was a great bargain, he said, and would 
be most useful. 

She looked at him with mingled amusement and contempt. 

“ You make a bargain, Mi. Rowen? If you ever bet, 1 will 
bet you anything you please that the cloth is shoddy, and that you 
have been regularly done. Don’t you know that all that nonsense 
about shipwrecked sailors is one of the oldest of old trick3?” 

Mr. Row r en replied that he did net know it, that he had formerly 
lived in a country place. 

“ If you would do what the vicar used to tell us,” for, to Mr. 
Ro wen’s disgust, she insisted on generally calling Mr. Manley 
“ the vicar ” — ” you wouldn't go out of } r our way to invent work, 
Mr. Rowen, but would do what lies nearest to your hand. It is 
my work to buy the material for the working party.” 

“ 5Tou are always criticising me and my deeds,” he responded, 
meekly. “ Were you so severe a critic to Mr. Manley?” 

“ Of course not,” she responded, readily. “The first time I 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 143 

heard him preach 1 criticised, it having been my Jot, unfortu- 
nately , to be thrown at one time with clergymen for whom 1 had 
no great respect; but after hearing Mr. Manley once or twice, I 
simply came to be taught, and accepted every word he said as 
given with the authority of the Church.” 

“ I, too, have the authority of the Church.” 

‘‘So, you have— sometimes,” she replied, promptly; “ but— 
you must really excuse my candor — your mantle of authority seems 
constantly to be slipping from you, while his never did. Wherever 
you saw him, 3 r ou couldn’t torget he carried Church authority with 
him.” 

‘‘You seem to take a very warm interest in him, Miss Hatton; 
a most remarkable interest, 1 may say,” said Mr. Rowen, in an 
injured voice. 

“ Do you mean, am I in love with him?” asked the young lady 
frankly. 

** That is my meaning.” 

“ Then, no! 1 am not. Dear me, haven’t you even sufficient 
knowledge of human nature to be aware that, if 1 were in love 
with him, 1 should say nothing about him. Pray, do you talk of 
your deepest feelings— of youi religious feelings, let us say? for it 
you do, you are the only person 1 know who does, except perhaps 
occasionally to a clergyman.” 

“ I have sufficient knowledge of human nature to know that 
you are extremely rude to me,” returned Mr. Rowen, now fairly 
brought to hay. 

She laughed. “ Yes„ 1 believe 1 am. Well, never mind. I 
am now ready to go back to the ball.” 

Mr. Rowen went home at once, his evening having been, in 
his opinion, a marked failure. 

Ethel’s evening had been very wearisome to her. She had en- 
gaged herself for every dance, looking on it as an ordeal which 
must be gone through with ; but in none of her partners did she 
take any interest. She could not remove her thoughts from the 
Australian wilds, where she imagined Mr. Manley was enduring 
every hardship. She pictured him in every way she could think 
of; but even she could not realize the dismal situation he was act- 
ually in. His voice and smile were ever present to her, his words 
constantly sounded in her ears. Had he failed in his duty? oh, if 
she could only know that he had not. These ideas were in her 
mind even while waltzing with a young commander, who was pay- 
ing her devoted attention. 


144 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH', 

At the close of the dance Mr. Campbell cam: 1 up. 

“ You are going to give me a dance now, 1 hope,” he said; 

“ you promised me one.” 

She smiled. 

“Very well, 1 must disappoint Mr. Maguire; I don’t suppose 
he will mind much, and I do not care about him.” 

“ All right ” returned Mi. Campbell, looking pleased. He ap- 
peared a very fine-looking young man to-night, his full dress uni- ’ 
form set his figure oft to the best advantage, and his face, though 
flushed, was certainly handsome, with its accompaniments of 
well-trimmed flaxen beard and mustache. 

“ There’s a soit of a balcony out here, or veranda place,” he 
said; “ will you come?” 

“ Y'es,” returned Ethel, readily; ” it will be cool out there.” 

The veranda overlooked thc-sea — indeed, the ball-room was built 
almost on the beach. Mr. Campbell took her to the further corner, 
apart from the other couples, and leaned over the railings, pressing 
her hand. 

“ 1 say,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “ this is very jolly, isn’t it? 
awfully jolly to be here alone with you.” 

Ethel laughed. 

'* 1 really did not know I was such an attraction.” 

“Know it? yon do Know it,” he rejoined fiercely. ‘‘I have 
always loved you, and 1 wish to marry you.” 

She withdrew her hand from his arm. 

‘‘Mr. Campbell!” she exclaimed, in surprise, *“ 1 assure you 1 
never had the slightest idea of it; and after the very marked atten- 
tion you have paid my sister, I do not feel at all flattered.” 

‘‘ My sister?” he repeated, scornfully; “I never so much as 
thought of your sister; it was always you.” 

‘‘You disguised your feelings very effectually,” she returned, 
with some contempt. “ 1 never had the smallest notion that you 
cared for me.” 

“ Will you have me? Say yes. 1 don’t want to be a snob, but 
1 have something to live on besides my beggarly pay, and you’ll 
find me a very tolerable fellow- for a husband/' 

“ 1 reject your offer most decidedly,” said Ethel; ‘‘and 1 am 
much astonished that you should have made it. I wish to return 
to the ball-room, if you please.’ 

He took her back iii sulky silence, and, returning to the veranda, 
watched the dancers in anger. 

Several of his brother officers from time to time passed him. One 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF XEWFORTH. ' 145 

or two held out sovereigns toward him, and one exclaimed, “ Ho, 
ho! the pity of it!” which rendered him furious. 

“ I don’t think he has proposed to her,” said another. “ I haven’t 
seen him speak to her all the evening; she’s in a corner over there 
with Worsley, who is precious far gone also.” 

At two o’clock Mrs. Hat-ton and her daughters left. Gertrude 
was on the aim of Captain Worsley, Ethel on that of the naval 
chaplain of the “Devastation.” Mr. Campbell watched them 
gloomily, and, as they passed him on the way to the carriage, an 
awful suspicion dawned on him. He nad proposed to the wrong 
girl! 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

MR. CAMPBELL’S VISIT. 

It was, indeed, true. Mr. Campbell had proposed to Ethel in- 
stead of Gertrude. The wine which he had taken had muddled 
his brain, and he had been fully under the impression he was talk- 
ing to Miss Hatton in the veranda. Pie went away not only furious, 
but seriously concerned. What could he do? He was quite sure 
that, under the circumstances, Ethel would repeat every word to 
her sister, and, with a girl like Gertrude, he feared his chance was 
now gone. It was precious awkward; precious awkward! But, 
not being a young man who was easily daunted, he determined 
to go to Admiral Hatton’s house the next day, and endeavor to 
make the best of it. 

Meantime Ethel had informed her sister of the unwarrantable 
proposal, and her sister was excessively angry. 

“ 1 don’t believe it,” she exclaimed. “ I'm sure he was in love 
with me. 1 can’t make it out. Have you been trying to cut me 
out. with him, Ethel?” she asked, sharply. 

“2 cut you out; tliat is, try to cut you out? You know 1 
haven’t.” 

“ It’s a mystery to me,” said Miss Hatton, “ although I alwa} r s 
did know that there isn’t an ounce of dependence to be placed in 
the generality of men! But this beats me!” And then she informed 
her sister that Captain Worsley had proposed to her at the ball, 
and that he was coming to see their father the next day; or, rather, 
seeing it was four o’clock in the morning, that day. 

“ And ldo hope there won’t be a row,” she said, “ for father 
does take such ridiculous crotchets into his head sometimes.” 


146 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

Ethel wished her sister every happiness, and thought sadly of 
how her own prospects were blighted. 

She liked Captain Worsley, she said; but, comparing him in 
her own mind with Mr. Manley, she decided that the former was 
at a tremendous disadvantage. 

The interview with Admiral Hatton passed off satisfactorily cn 
the whole. 

“ I wish you to understand, young man,” he said, “ that 1 won’t 
have any son-in-law who is asnamed of her Majesty’s navy. Keep 
your hunters and welcome, if you can afford it, after your mar- 
riage, and wear your pink coat if you please ; but unless you put 
your title. ‘ Commander Henry Worsley,’ on the cards you leave 
at private houses, you sba’n’t many my daughter, that’s positive.” 

Captain Worsley laughed good-humoredly. 

“ I have explaind all my circumstances to you, sir, and am willing 
to settle money on your daughter ; but as to what 1 put on my cards, 
that is my business --come, sir, be reasonable.” 

But the admiral would not be reasonable, and declined his con- 
sent until Captain Worsley had promised to sign an agreement 
stating that he would retain his title, and not be ashamed of the 
navy. The humor of the situation struck the young man so much 
that he consented. 

“ We’ll have it down in black and white,” said the admiral, 
taking up a pen, and jotting down the particulars on a piece of 
paper, which Captain Worsley signed, with a roar of laughter. 

He had barely left the house tor Seafort when Mr. Campbell 
appeared. He was shown into tire drawing-room, wliert Mrs. Hat- 
ton and the girls were sitting at work. He seemed somewhat ill at 
ease. 

“ Fine day, isn’t it?” he exclaimed, and sauntered over to the 
window. 

'* What’s that new shrub you have across the lawn?” he asked. 

“There is nothing new,” said Mrs. Hatton. Neither Gertiude 
nor Ethel had as yet spoken. 

‘‘If it isn’t new, 1 have never seen if before,” he returned, 
somewhat crossly. “ 1 wish you would show it to me, Miss Hat- 
ton.” 

^he was on the point cf declining when an idea that she would 
like to give him a piece of her mind came across her. yiie rose and 
accompanied him across the lawn. 

”1 say, Gertrude,” he said, hurriedly, “ this is an awful busi- 
ness. 1 made a great tool of myself last night.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEW FORTH. 


147 

“1 dare say you did,” she rejoined, carelessly; ‘‘but 1 prefer 
to be addressed as Miss Hatton by you.” 

“ You know perfectly well that 1 am in love with you; that 1 
have always been.” 

“ 1 don’t particularly care to hear it,” she answered, sharply, 
“ seeing that you told Ethel the same story last night.” 

“ 1 know 1 did,” he returned, pulling at the branches as he 
spoke; “that’s what 1 am come about now. I made an awful 
mistake last night: 1 thought .she was you .” 

“Don’t tell me anything so ridiculous,” retorted Miss Hatton, 
“ because 1 don’t believe a word of it. 1 ou are not out of your 
mind, and you couldn't have mistaken her for me; w.e are not in 
the least alike.” 

“ But 1 did," said Mr. Campbell, with great eneigy, “or I 
should never have asked her, I declare solemnly. I had been hav 
ing a glass of wine, you know. It is you 1 want to marry; it al- 
ways was you.” 

“1 refuse you,” she returned, without a touch of pity in her 
voice; “ refuse you absolutely and unconditionally.” 

The youug man’s face clouded. 

“ That is awfully hard lines,” he said. “ Come, think better of 
it, Gertrude.” 

“Certainly not,” she replied; “the excuse you have given ag- 
gravates your offense. Do you suppose 1 am going to marry a man 
who drinksl” 

“And there’ll be all those fellows to settle with, hang it!” he 
exclaimed to himself. 

But Miss Hatton heard him. 

“ What fellows?” she asked, sharply. “ What do you mean?” 

“ It was nothing, only a bet,” he answered, vaguely. 

But she resolved to be told, and at last extracted from him an 
unwilling explanation. 

“ Well!” she exclaimed, her eyes flashing, “ if you were so far 
lost to yourself as to make me the subject of a bet at a public din- 
ner-table, and about such a matter too, it shows me the sort of 
man you must be. If there were not another man in the world, I 
would not marry jmu now. More than this, I am engaged to Cap- 
tain Worslev.” 

Mr. Campbell departed in a rage. That evening he sent two 
sovereigns apiece to his friends of the dinner-table, and, going up 
to town the next day, made interest to be appointed to one Df the 
ships at Plymouth. 


148 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP KEW FORTH, 


CHAPTER XXX1U. 

MR. MANLEY’S EXPERIENCES. 

Mr. Manley was becoming shadowy, both in mind and body. 
Theclimale had told on him, but the mental strain to which he 
had been so long subject had done him far more harm. He con- 
tinued his work bravely, although it was becoming a sore toil to 
him. He was conscious ot a strong wish to lie down under such 
shade as could be found, instead of sitting at work at his transla- 
tions, or doing his best to teach the children English words and 
phrases, or perform acts of kindness towaid the men and women. 
But he would not give in, and— fearing lest self-indulgence should 
be at the root of this disinclination, and knowing that the manners 
and customs of the natives were day by day becoming more loath- 
some to him, his work more irksome— he sternly apportioned to 
himself certain hours for each self-imposed duty; and no matter 
what his weariness, no matter what the heat, he fulfilled it, often 
to lie down at nigbt too utterly prostrated to be capable even of 
thought. His appetite had failed. It was as much as he could do 
to touch any of the food they brought him; but, knowing that 
without sustenance he could not support his strength, he looked 
on this, too, as a duty, and forced himself to partake of the un- 
tempting meals given him. 

The keen, shrewd, clever, strong, practical Vicar cf Newfortli 
had departed, and in his place there was a man whose mind was 
given to visions and flights of the imagination. Recalling seme- 
times the life he had lived— the crowded, over-busy life, in which 
he had barely bad sufficient time for necessary thought, in which, 
from morning till night, some one or other had appealed to him 
for advice or help, or spiritual counsel, or sometimes merely on 
vain pretexts — he marveled, and asked himself it it indeed were he. 

With these black men there was association, but no communion 
whatever; be lived as much alone as if, indeed, lie had been quite 
solitary. He feund himself constantly thinking of St. Paul, and 
entering into that apostle’s most ardenl thoughts and most lofty 
conceptions. He was not sure, but it at length occurred to him 
that his influence among the tribe was even less than it had been 
formerly. The children still came to him, but the men would walk 
carelessly away when he spoke. But not one whit of his exertions 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


149 


did he relax in consequence. And then this happened to him — his 
mind outran his body. Instead of sleeping at night, he found 
himself, except at short and uncertain intervals, plunging into 
theories which he had learned in former years. With all the glori- 
ous stars of the southern hemisphere above his head, he would re- 
gard them, and lose himself in speculations as to the reality of 
the many visionary ideas which from time to time had been put 
forward by scientific men. Then, when the moon rose in all her 
splendor, he would look at her, and apostrophize the theory of 
her deadness, and that of many of the starry host, as horrible. It 
seemed to him something awful that these dead worlds should be 
whirling through space, their light and glow and beauty unchange- 
able. He did net believe in the truth of it. And then he would 
find himself repeating snatches of Greek plays, and portions of 
the verse of the Latin poets. His accumulated stores of knowl- 
edge, much of which he had completely forgotten, had all re- 
turned to him; he wondered to think of what he had once known. 

His brain refused him any rest. He compelled himself to con- 
centrate his attention in the daytime on what he was doing, giant 
effort as it was; but, toward evening, the very greatness of his 
mental powers produced a corresponding loss of bodily strength 
to control them. “ If my brain would only rest,” he said some- 
times; “ if only for three or four hours.” 

But this it would not do; his thoughts ran riot. Now he was 
with Ethel, in imagination; and, forgetting his bitterness against 
her, was looking in her sweet face, and repeating that ardent poetry 
she had so loved. He found himself saying aloud one night, 

“ O love, love, love, O withering might!” 

and then he had checked himself with a half-laugh, in which there 
was no mirth. But for the peace of God, which still possessed 
him, and the earnest desire to do his duty, he felt he could not 
have berne his life. 

He found himself dealing with the generalities of all the sciences, 
and— with those with which he was most intimately acquainted — 
going into the subtler niceties and more profound depths. The 
geological theories of the present day, the geographical discoveries, 
the marvelous researches of chemistry— on all of which subjects 
he had read deeply— were to him now sources of actual distress. 
He could not dismiss their particulars from his mind. He had 
formerly given much time to metaphysics, and now all the prob- 
lems of the Aristotelian trealises would not be forgotten. He 
worked them out ceaselessly; they gave him no peace. He recalled 


150 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


the lives of eminent men — of philosophers, poets, painters, musi- 
cians; he found that he could remember each detail that he had 
read concerning them. The ancient histories of the world, the 
modern histories, all came back to him with bewildering distinct- 
ness. As he lav he would sometimes fancv he could hear the 
tramp of the armed hosts in the battles of the ancients. And then, 
at break of day, he would plunge his head into the stream, and re- 
turn, to some degree refreshed, only, as the day wore on, to find 
himself again under the influence of his too active mind. He asked 
himself sometimes if his brain were diseased, but decided that it 
was not. 

So passed the days and weeks, his spirit strong and brave as ever 
not to succumb, but his health gradually tailing. He wandered 
some little distance away one evening. He was absent some hours, 
and when he returned he found smoke and charred timber and 
ruin; the blacks had burned his huts and had departed. And this 
was the result of his mission work! But even then his courage did 
not fail him; he looked up, and said, “It is permitted by God;” 
and, lying down on the ground, slept — for the first time for many 
a long week— some hours of dreamless, unbroken sleep. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

UNBELIEF. 

To remain in the bush under such circumstances would not only 
be absurd, it would be manifestly wrong. Therefore Mr. Manley 
determined to seek the nearest station without delay; it was thirty 
miles distant, but he could walk that, he thought, by taking rest 
constantly. He had a small supply of food— such food, alas! — and 
he could carry sufficient water slung in a large flask on his back. 
His Bible he always carried in pocket. With this, and this alone, 
he departed. 

He felt no regret as he turned his back on what had been his 
home for so many months; he felt nothing. His period of mental 
suffering had been too greatly prolonged; he could feel pain no 
longer. At this moment he doubted if any bad news would have 
affected him in the smallest degree. 

He journeyed but slowly; the ground was rough and uneven, the 
heat very great. He passed among groves of eucalypti and she- 
oaks, their somber green foliage giving little shelter. At night he 
heard the shrill cry of a night-bird or two, otherwise there was 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


151 


piofound stillness. He made sure he knew the right track, but 
when two days had passed, and he saw no sign ot the station, he 
began to fear that he had missed his way. 

During all this time his brain had become still less under his 
control, his physical weakness was becoming so great. The pro- 
found solitude removed all need for restraint, and he would burst 
forth into the solemn strains of Milton, or quote some of the fearful 
passages of Dante,, without knowing why he did sc. He would 
repeal long passages from the Epistles, and once chanted aloud an 
entire chapter or the Song of Solomon. Yet, with it all, his mind 
was, in one way, as clear as it had ever been ; he appreciated to 
the full his own situation, and spoke to himself of his own danger. 

But when the third day was ended he lay down, and nis heart 
for the first time failed him. He drank his last drop of water, and 
closed his eyes, exclaiming, with Elijah, “It is enough; now, O 
Lord, take my life.” But even as he said the words, they savored 
to him of cowardice. He arose, and taking out his Bible, began 
to read by the light of the moon. It opened at Ezekiel, and this 
was the verse that attracted his attention: “ 1 saw in my vision by 
night, and behold, the four winds of the heavens strove upon the 
great sea.” His mind seemed to dwell on this; he closed his Bible 
and lay down again. The stars looked from their heights, and, as 
he contemplated them, he found himself again with his mind on 
astronomical theories. Could it be possible, he asked himself, if 
each tiny speck in remotest distances weie itself a solar system of 
vast extent, that the Creator of such vast and illimitable space 
could look down on such a human being as himself ? The faith 
in an actual personal presence of God had ever been his firmest be- 
lief; during his worst troubles this had never left him; in every- 
thing he had recognized the finger of God. But now a worse 
trouble befell him, for that consolation was no longer present. 
The majesty of the solar systems so oppressed him that his faith 
was well-nigh gone. “Such knowledge is too wonderful forme; 
1 can not attain unto it,” he said, in the bitterness of his heart. But 
the thought was agony to him. He knelt on the ground, and 
stretched out his hands in despair, exclaiming, with Max Picco- 
lomini, 

“ ‘ Oh, that an angel would descend from heaven, 

And scoop for me the right, the uncorrupted, 

With a pure hand from the pure font of light . 1 ” 

He thought of his own life, and wondered if that were an entire 
failure; whether his whole labor had not been thrown away, He 


152 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF STEW FORTH. 


thought ot the agcny endured, not by Christians only, but by peo- 
ple of all sects, of all nations~the hopeless agony ofttimes. He 
began to marvel how men could believe that one little portion of 
the great family of mankind could only be right; to question 
whether, if there were a Father at all, he was not.equally Father 
to all ; and then he remembered the prayers sometimes used in 
time of war — prayers that we might, in effect, mow down our fel- 
low-creatures, equally children of the universal family — and he 
Wondered that men could pray them. 

He thought of Jews, Mohammedans, Brahmins, Christians, all 
pressing forward in their efforts to worship the one God, blindly, 
it may be, but still earnestly; and he wondered if that God knew 
it. He could not believe that we alone, of all sections, would, in 
the long, far-off future, be the only saved; he could not but hope 
that some way might yet be found for all. 

And then the theory of the gradual absorption of the sea into 
the center of the earth, and the gradual but slow and sure death 
of the world itself, came over him; and he asked himself. For 
what purpose was it made? 

He who had comforted the sorrowful, had given assurance to 
the doubting, had ministered to the sick, and been as the right 
hand of all in whose path he was thrown, was now sick and sor- 
rowful and doubting himself, but there was none to uphold him. 
Still kneeling, he held up his aims, and said, 

“ ‘ I falter where I firmly trod. 

And falling with my weight of cares 
Upon the great world’s altar stairs. 

That slope through darkness up to God, 

‘“I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope. 

And gather dust and chaff, aud call, 

To what I feel is Lord of all, 

And faintly trust the larger hope.’ ” 

The stars still shone in all their glory, and again he lay back 
beneath a eucalyptus, and looked at them. And then a lower 
depth opened to him, and the still more awful thought came into 
his mind, “ Is there a God?” It was torture to him; he wrestled 
with it, he threw liimsell on his face, and clutched the very ground 
in his hands in his agony at this idea. But put it from him he 
could not. The past happiness he had always enjoyed, the evi- 
dences of prophecy, of faith, of his own soul — all went by him, 
as though they had never been. They had been, he knew; tut 
grasp them be could not; to him uow they were meaningless words. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


153 


Wave alter wave ot unbelief swept over liim. Every difficulty 
he had ever felt in Old Testament narrative, every doubt of any 
Kiud whatever, all came to him now, and swallowed him up. lie 
asked himself whether there were a God, or heaven, or future life; 
or whether the atheists were right, and he, and such as he, were 
of all men most miserable. 

Forgetting how in the foimer times he had so earnestly counseled 
others not to expect that any special miracle would be wrought in 
their case, he cried aloud, “ If there he a God, manifest thyself.” 
But there was neither voice nor answer, and the same awful silence 
reigned. And then his physical system would bear nothing further; 
he lay down again, motionless, to die, with the awful thought deep 
down in his heart, ‘‘There is no God!” He began to fancy he 
was dead already. A voice in his mind, not his own, seemed re- 
peating, 

“ O me ! why have they not buried me deep enough? 

Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough— 

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 

May be still I am. but half dead, 

Then I can not be wholly dumb. 

I will cry to the steps above my head, 

And somebody, surely some kind heart will come 
To bury me, bury me 
Deeper, ever so little deeper.” 

Then he lay in a trance, and this was the vision he beheld as he 
lay. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

HIS VISION. 

He seemed to stand on the sea shore— a wild, barren, and deso- 
late shore; the clouds hung black and low; the sun was blood-Ted 
and misty; the wind moaned and sighed; the waves, dull and 
leaden-colored, broke heavily on the strand. Suddenly up rushed 
the north wind, howling and raving; snow fell in showers; the 
waves increased, till they lashed in fury on the shore. The wind 
took him, and bore him out to sea, he thought, to the midst of the 
mighty ocean. The south wind appeared; it fought and wrestled 
with the north. The waves rose in huge billows; the noise was 
deafening. Thunder clashed and lightning shone, when up came 
the east aud west winds. The battle of the elements had begun. 

It was an awful scene of wildest chaos, and he was in the midst 


154 THE BACHELOR YTCAR OF HEWFORTH. 

of it all. At one moment borne clowu to the lowest depths of the 
ocean; at another, high upraised in the sky; then whiiled around 
by those tremendous forces. He felt no fear; he gloried in it. The 
sense of life, of power, of danger, of excitement, was fearful in 
its intensity; but he rejoiced in it, although he knew that the whole 
earth was shaken, and the end of all things was at hand. The 
tumult, the roar and rage went on— it might have- been for days, 
it might have been for ages— when suddenly, in a moment, all was 
still. 

The sky, no longer leaden, but brightly blue, opened above him; 
he was borne upward and upward, up and still up, to golden lights 
and starry firmaments. . He knew that eternity had begun. But 
what was it? Was it that deadening, dulling sound of never- 
ending, never-varying singing? Oh, no, it was not that. It was 
something altogether marvelous, altogether beautiful. He passed 
through cycles of years, from one starry system to another, ever 
glorying in the marvels that surrounded him; never wearying of 
the gorgeous beauty, the unceasing development of knowledge, the 
explanation of all mysteries, even to that painful problem of the 
world— our world. 

He found an answer to the great question of “Why?” Why 
the sorrow, the suffering, the care, the sin; he saw it all then — 
why permitted, why sent. Every good action, every pure thought, 
every kind word, lived and lived again; good triumphed, evil had 
vanished. Pain had gone, and with it all tears and sorrow and 
crying. 

He thought Ethel wa3 with him, that together they understood 
what mortals call the inscrutable ways, the devious counsels of the 
Almighty, which ever, as they advanced in knowledge, seemed 
vaster to their comprehension. Together they rejoiced in the love- 
liness, the splendors of creation; and here, as never before, soul 
answered soul, and he and she were no longer divided. A et he was 
not always with her. In this spirit-world he met again all the 
true love and friendship he had ever known. The reality appeared 
the dross and alloy had melted away. It no longer seemed sad 
that there they neither married nor were given in marriage. The 
love all bore to one another made them willing to share their joys; 
they met with rapture, they parted without pain. For over and 
above, and in and through all, was the light which no man can 
approach unto. 

So time had gone, and forever and forever new pleasures, new 
delights, awaited them; and for everything which they had given 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


Ic55 


up tor conscience’ sake they seemed to be recompensed through all 
eternity. And then a higher flight of glory seemed to be vouch- 
safed to him, but what he saw can net be written in pages such as 
these. 

All consciousness left him; he lay like a log, with the winds 
roaring and raving above him, the thunder rolling, and the lain 
dashing in sheets on his face. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

GOOD SAMARITANS. 

Two gentlemen were driving toward Campeitown at break of 
day. 

“ What a storm we had in the night!” said one. 

1 am very glad it is over; 1 was beginning to think the roof 
would have been blown in,” said the other. 

They had been visiting an outlying hut, and had stayed the night 
there. 

” Look under the trees yonder,” returned his friend, a Mr. Phil- 
pot; “ a man is lying there, surely.” 

“ Can’t be.” 

“ But it is,” said Mr. Pliilpot, pulling up, and giving the reins 
tD his friend, Mr. Groves; *' stay here, while I go and see.” 

He returned shortly. 

” By his dress he is a clergyman ’’—for even in the bush Mr. 
Manley had retained clerical costume—” and 1 am afraid he is 
dead.” 

Mr. Groves got out, hitched the reins round a tree, and looked, 
attentively at the recumbent figure. 

” He is not dead,” he said. ” What a fine face he hasl” for Mr. 
Manley’s face, though wasted, had grown beautiful in its expres- 
sion of calm repose. 

Mr. Philpot took out his flask, and administered a tew drops of 
brandy. After a short interval, they forced about a teaspoonful 
down his throat. 

” He is drenched to the skin,” said Mr. Groves. “ What are we 
to do with him?” 

“ Take him with us to the nearest station, and that is five miles 
out of our way,” 


150 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF FEWFORTH. 

“ lie is at death’s door,” said 31r. Groves, who had been a med- 
ical student formerly; “ he will not get sufficient attention at Ons- 
low’s station; we had better take him with us to Campertown, and 
put him up at some hotel.” 

With some difficulty they lited anil placed him in the vehicle. 
Mr. Groves supported him on the journey, and from time to time 
administered brandy; but at Campertown these good Samaritans 
would not leave him at a hotel. 

44 1 will put him up myself,” said Mr. Philpot, who lived in the 
place, and was a wealthy man. “ Go for a doctor at once, will 
you, Groves?” 

For three days Mr. Manley lay on his bed unable to move hand 
or foot. In unconsciousness—in merciful, profound unconscious- 
ness — his weary brain was at rest at last. But when at length he 
came to himself, he awoke with his mind clear and bright, in the 
fullest possession of his senses. His first words were, 1 thank my 
God.” 

Then he asked how he had been saved, and when they told him, 
he was too weak to reply; he lay again in profound stillness, a look 
of peace on his face. 

For a week he hovered between life and death, and then his vigor 
began to return to him, and he knew that he should live; but he 
still could net rise. Then he asked if he were in a town, and if 
there were a clergyman in it. 

They told him there was, on which he requested that he might 
be sent for to administer the communion. 

The doctor attending him mistook his meaning. 

‘‘You are not going to die, sir; I will stake my professional rep- 
utation that you will recover.” 

44 1 know it,” returned Mr. Manley, 44 but it is my wish to do as 
I have said.” 

They acceded to his request, and he spent the rest of the day in 
silence. And then, when he could leave his bed, he found that 
every toilet requisite was supplied; his clothes, wayworn ami soiled 
with travel, had been renovated; and that every accessory, in the 
way of slippers, handkerchiefs, and so on, was ready for him. To 
his kind host, and to Mr. Groves, he was profoundly grateful; but 
he said little in actual words. 

As soon as he was able they drove him to church one Sunday 
morning, arriving about the time of the communion service. There 
were few communicants; they only filled the space of the altar- rails. 
Mr, Manley knelt last of them all ; but when the clergyman, see- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


157 


ing a brother clergyman, would have administered to him first, he 
motioned to him to begin at the other end, receiving last of all, and 
saying, in his inmost heart, “lam not worthy.” 

The service over, he retired to his room, and was not seen again 
that day. 

He was now without worldly goods, without money, without, as 
he thought, reputation; and yet he was saying, in the depths of his 
heart, “ l thank my God.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

DESPONDENCY. 

Mr. Philpot’s kindness did not end by forcing Mr. Manley to 
accept a Joan, for which he could scarcely be prevailed oti to re- 
ceive an acknowledgment,; but on hearing that Mr. Manley wished 
to proceed without delay to Mr. Yorke’s station, he himself volun- 
teered tc accompany him. 

“You are not fit to travel at all,” he said, kiudly; “ much less 
alone.” 

In truth, he had been more impressed than he cared to acknowl- 
edge by the clergyman's patient endurance, his courteous manner, 
and, above all, his earnest face and expression. He wculd gladly 
have detained him longer, but Mr. Manley was anxious to arrive 
at Mr. Yorke’s, for he looked on him as more than a brother. 

Mr.and Mrs. Yorke received him with open arms. He was still 
very weak, and Mr. Yorke insisted that he should for the present 
keep entirely to his own set of rooms, taking his meals’ when and 
how he pleased, without feeling himself bound to join the dinner- 
table, wlieie often there were many guests. 

But it was by no means Mr. Yorke’s intention to leave his visitor 
in solitude. He sat with him, he read to him, and often in the night 
he would come to him to make sure he wanted for nothing, and, 
seeing him quietly sleeping, would gently depart. For Mr. Manley 
could sleep now; sometimes he thought he cculd not sleep enough. 
His sleep was profound, dreamless; his mind had entirely ceased 
its strange workings. 

Then, as he grew stronger, he would by degrees join the family 
circle, and talk in his old pleasant fashion to their child, or enter 
into conversation wilh Mrs. Y r orke, who was clever. But it went 
to her heart sometimes to see how sad his face was when he 
thought he was unobserved, to note the far-away look in his eyes. 


158 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF ItEW FORTH. 


“1 wish you would gel him to lell you what is troubling him, 
William,” she said to her husband. “ 1 am sure there is some- 
thing on his mind; perhaps it is about that Ethel.” For her Mrs. 
Yorke had not even now the commonest patience. 

So one evening, when Mr. Manley was in his own sitting room, 
leaning back in a very comfortable arm chair at the open window, 
looking at the azaleas and other flowers in full bloom outside, Mr. 
Yorke stood beside him, and, placing his hand on his shoulder, 
said, very kindly, '‘Phil, dear boy, won’t you tell me what the 
trouble is?” 

Mr. Manley looked at the kind, true lace of his friend, and hesi- 
tated as to whether he should tell him or not; to every other human 
being he knew his lips would be sealed. 

“ You haven’t forgotten Ethel yet; is that it?” asked Yorke, 
revolving in his mind whether matters might not yet be patched up 
between them, if he still loved her. 

Mr. Manley shook his head. 

“It seems to me 1 have forgotten her; l rarely think of her.” 
And, indeed, he thought he had in one sense forgotten her. 

Yorke took a chair beside him. 

** You have something on your mind, 1 know; i have long seen 
it, my wife now sees it.” 

“ The matter of which 1 am now about to speak is one which 
you must not repeat to your wife,” said Mr. Manley, with a tcuch 
of his old determination. 

“ I will not.” 

Then Mr. Manley told him the entire history of his fatter days 
among the blacks, of his menial sufferings, of his loss of faith; 
and Anally, some little of the vision vouchsafed to him (for such 
he believed it), though never again did*this narrative cress his lips. 

Yorke listened in silence to the end. 

“ But what is the trouble now?” he asked, at length. 

“ Do you think it is no trouble to a man such as 1 am to have 
denied his God?” be said; and spoke fuither words of humility 
which grieved Yorke to his very soul. 

He thought of the men he knew, living, many of them, happy, 
careless, sometimes sinful lives, and how no remorse affected them, 
while here was this man, who had lived the life of a martyr and a 
saint, bowed down to the dust with the sense of his own unworth- 
iness. 

“My dear Phil,” he exclaimed, “my more than brother, you 
make a great mistake; you do, indeed. On your own showing 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWEORTH. 


159 


you were ill and weak; your mind and bcdv were not properly bal- 
anced. Under these circumstances, you went through certain 
phases of feeling, for which you are no more responsible than my 
child would be for the like.” 

Mr. Manley shook his head. 

“ You did not wish to feel as you did, you would have given all 
you possessed not to have felt it; therefore you are blameless, en- 
tirely blameless.” 

“ How if 1 felt thus in consequence of some sin, even to myself 
scarcely acknowledged— some sin, perhaps, of former years?” 

This speech cut Yorke yet more deeply, who knew how stainless 
his friend’s life had been. 

“ You paiD me more than 1 can tell you, Phil,” he said, gravely; 
‘‘ ycu are not yoursell. If our cases were reversed, you would be 
the first to. tell me that 1 ought to comfort myself, and not attribute 
my feelings to any other ground than my own health. I do not 
profess to understand these matters generally, but 1 do most strong- 
ly feel that you are now wrong. Your vision may, step by step, be 
traced 1o actual causes— the thunder, the wind, the rain, the re- 
membrance of your books, ci Ethel, and so on. So also with your 
other feelings; they were simply morbid. ” 

But Mr. Manley again shook his head. 

“ Put it on other grounds, then,” continued Yorke. “ Granted 
that it was your own fault that you couldn’t always be a St. Paul 
— though 1 don’t for a moment admit it was — don’t you think that 
to be the subject of a special vision (if you will have.it it was a vis- 
ion) a man must be the very leverse of a bad man, or he would not 
be so honored?” 

” God forbid 1 should ever believe that” said Mr. Manley, in 
his deep voice, and putting his white hand to his face, on which 
the color had now began to reluru. 

lorke was in despair. 

” What argument can 1 adduce?” he thought. 

*' Come, Phil,” he said, cheerily, ” pick up heart. I see you are 
better fitted to give counsel than to take it. It you don’t believe 
me, go to your bishop, to your archbishop, if you will (you were 
always sucli a stickler for Church authority, I know), and see if 
they don’t tell you the same as 1 do.” 

” I admit, fully the authority of my bishop,” said Mr. Manley, 
gravely; “ but he can not judge between me and my own soul.” 

And yet you advise others, and expect them to receive your 
counsel as authoritative.” 


100 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEW FORTH. 


“ They are laymen, 1 am a priest.” 

“ My dear old boy,” returned Yorke, with a laugh, though he 
telt to the full the trouble of his fiiend, “ you are becoming a reg- 
ular kill- joy; cheer up, and forget your troubles. Speak to me in 
a year’s time, and then tell me if you do not judge yourself differ- 
ently. And now, good night,” and Yorke grasped his hand 
warmly. 

Mr. Manley remained deep in thought tor some time, and then it 
seemed to him that possibly his friend might be right. Hut that 
the vision was a vision, and nothing else, he would lways believe 
to the end of his days. 


CHAPTER XXXV111. 

RETURNING HEALTH. 

The advice given by Yorke was wholesome; the seed had taken 
root, ana was destined (o bear fruit. For this man, who in former 
days had never read either the Athanasian Creed or the Commioa- 
tion Service from the moment that the Church allowed Df the 
omission, feeling from the love he bore his people that he could not 
willingly sit in judgment on them, had, during the preceding 
weeks, been judging himself far more sternly than his worst enemy 
would have done. 

From this time he was very seldom allowed to be alone. It was, 
“ Phil, 1 wish you would drive my wife over to So-and-so’s, 1 am 
busy and can’t go.” Or, “ Please, Mr. Manley, come and help me 
to cut these flowers, the stalks hurt my fingers so;” and Mrs. 
Yorke would display her white hands in an injured manner, know- 
ing full well that she could have summoned the gardener to her as- 
sistance in one minute. Or it would be, “ The housekeeper 
would be so much pleased if Mr; Manley wculd look at her store- 
rooms, and see the provisions served out to the men.” Or, ‘‘ The 
groom would be glad if Mr. Manley would choose which horses he 
preferred to drive.” 

The child, too — a very pretty, engaging little girl of two years 
old, the delight of Y'orke’s heart— who had been scrupulously kept 
away from Mr. Manley’s sitting-room, now constantly came in 
through the open windows, when he would at once lay aside his 
writing or his books, and take her on his knee and amuse her. 

A messenger wbuld constantly arrive: ‘‘The master was busy; 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


161 


could Mr. Manley look into such and-sucli a thing for him.” Once, 
when thus summoned to see a man who had met with an accident, 
and cut himself badly, Mr. Manley caught sight of Yorke’s retreat- 
ing form through the back of the shed. He called him. “ Why 
did you send, as you were here yourself?” 

“ Oh,” replied Yorke, coolly, “ 1 always have my hands full; I 
really don’t see why you shouldn’t help me.” 

So, in his old fashion, Mr. Manley fell into his old custom of 
talking pleasantly and genially with all with whom he was brought 
into contact, and forgot himself in serving others. He observed 
that, by degrees, all the deep and learned books v;hich Yoike had 
placed at first in his sitting-room were removed, and replaced by 
novels, comic papers, and the most trivial literature. 

There was one book — a geological work, newly brought out — 
which, being interested in, he determined to keep, and took it into 
his bedroom at night. He was reading it the next morning, when 
Mrs. Yorke stepped in at his sitting-room window, looking as fresh 
as a rose, her hands full of flowers. 

“ Here are some lovely roses for you, Mr. Manley,” she said, 
beginning to place them in vases on the table; “ and,” glancing at 
the book on his knees, “lam very sorry, but I want that book you 
are reading; 1 have promised it to a friend.” 

He smiled. “ Do you think your friend would mind waiting a day 
or two?” he said, “lam really interested in these theories, which 
are something new.” 

“ Oh, 1 am sure he would,” said Mrs. Yorke, with decision. “ 1 
promised it to him yesterday; it is Mr. Greengrass, oj the Wattles. 
1 thought, perhaps, you would not mind taking me over there now 
to leave it.” 

He closed the hook with reluctance, and declared himself quite 
ready. And during the five-mile drive there, surely so clevor a 
woman as Mrs. York6 talked a rast amount of nonsense, making 
riddles, and repeating the queer sayings of the country folk, at 
which Mr. Manley found himself smiling. 

It was a bright, beautiful morning, the sun’s heat tempered with 
a refreshing breeze. He said he had greatly enjoyed his drive, as 
they arrived at the Wattles. Mrs. Yorke alone alighted, reappear- 
ing in a minute or two, accompanied by Mrs. Greengrass. 

“ So much obliged to you,” he heard the latter say, as she stood 
in the door-way. 

The book lay for some months on Mr. Greengrass’s table, whence 
it svas duly returned— unopened. 


162 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


A twinkle of his old humor came into Mr. Manley’s eye — he 
having seen thiough the ruse at once— on their return drive. 

“ A ten-mile drive, and all your trouble, to keep me from read- 
ing that book,” he said, looking her full in the face, ‘‘lam much 
obliged to you, Mrs. Yorke.” She blushed scarlet for a moment, 
then laughed. 

‘‘Was the device, then, so transparent? But, Mr. Manley, when 
any one has been as ill as you have been he ought not, indeed, to 
read much.” 

“ 1 am beginning to think you are right,” he answered, gently. 
“ 1 dare say you know what is best for me, better than 1 do my- 
self.” 

The calls on his time were now becoming so frequent that he had 
but little to spare. The charm of his manner had so impressed 
every one on the station that he would often be sent for quite in- 
dependently cf Mr. YcrKe; for every man and every woman wished 
to have a kind word from him, and would seize on any pretense fcr 
doing so, more especially the women. It recalled to him his New- 
forth days, when he could not escape from the ladies, who coined 
pretexts for receiving a word or a smile from him, although it was 
not quite thus that he put it to himself. Then there were nice girls 
brought to stay in the house, and Mr. Manley was directed to escort 
them hifhei and thither. To them he was invariably courteous 
and kiijd, but his heart W8S still too soie with regard to Ethel to 
allow of any new attraction. 

“ Such a charming man,” said the girls. 

*‘ What a delightful visitor!” And so on. 

The conversation seemed to be very frivolous very often; one 
would have supposed that no one had ever heard of a poet, unless, 
indeed, some faint recollection of Shakespeare survived. And when 
Mr. Manley, on giving up sitting alone, searched the book-shelves 
for something worth reading, he found little but what he empha- 
sized as trash, quite ignorant that Yorke had spent an entire morn- 
ing in rearranging his large stock of books, and bad caused box- 
fuls to be put away. 

One day he asked Him if he would hold a service on Sunday in 
the large hall outside. 

** Certainly,” said Mr. Manley, much gratified; ‘‘and am I to 
preach? ’ 

“ Well, no, rhil,” said Yorke, with a laugh; “ we don’t care 
about sermons in this part of the world. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Yorke was on the point of responding, warmly, that every 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


163 


one would care about Mr. Manley’s sermons; a warning look from 
her husband checked her. Mi. Manley felt glad he was not called 
on to preach; he knew himself that his mind required rest yef. 

But when the service was held, lorke, who never could or would 
be induced to rise in church on the clergyman’s entrance, stood up 
when Mr. Manley appeared, and remained standing for some min- 
utes, and with him the entire congregation. After this, he was re- 
quested to read prayers every day, a shortened form, and the same 
mark of respect was invariably paid him. 

As yet he had held to his teetotal principles, and had observed 
with satisfaction that all the men employed on the station drank 
nothing but tea. But, though his color and strength had returned, 
Mr. Yorke was not yet satisfied about his friend. He accosted 
him abruptly one day. 

“If 1 asked you to do me a favor, would you do it?” 

“ Of course 1 would,” replied Mr. Manley, cheerfully. 

“ 1 want you to take some medicine.” 

“ Oh,” returned the other, “ that really is a stretch of friendship 
on your part; 1 have no faith in drugs.” 

“Here it is,” said Yoike, laughing, and producing a bottle of 
port wine, on which Mrs. Yorke had placed a label, with medicine 
written in large letters. 

“ And you are to take two large glasses a day. Keep it in here, 
and no ohe will be the wiser. 1 suggest this, or else 1 know I shall 
be told about example, and all that. You really want it, Phil; be 
guided by me.” 

“ 1 will be guided by you,” said the clergyman, Who was no as- 
cetic for asceticism’s sake; “ 1 will certainly take it.” 

The bottle, when finished, was replaced by another and another, 
on all cf which Mrs. Yorke placed the same label; and then Mr. 
Manley declared that he was now thoroughly well, and would take 
no moie. Neither did his friends think it necessary to urge him. 

He was playing with the little girl one day on Ihe lawn, throwing 
her a ball. As Yorke was advancing, it fell on his head. The 
child laughed, and Mr. Manley gave a cheery, hearty laugh, which 
gladdened his friend’s heart. He placed his hand on his shoulder. 

“The vicar of old times has come back, Phil,” he exclaimed, 
kindly. “ 1 was beginning to be afraid at one time that we had 
got hold of a St. Simeon Stylites; and now, old fellow, you may 
preach, or read, or do anything you please; 1 wash my hands of 
you.” 

It was true; the vicar had returned, the visionary had departed. 


164 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

His remoise had gone, and, save for a great regret, which he 
thought would keep him humble to the end of his days, prevent his 
ever.feeling pride respecting himself, and cause him more deeply 
to sympathize with the erring, there were no evil traces left behind 
of the night on which he had lain down to die. 

Then one day, on the arrival of the English mail came a bundle, 
a sheaf, a package of letters from New forth, addressed to Mr. Man- 
ley, to be forwarded to him by Mr. Yorke without delay; they 
were most important. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

MRS. CARTER. 

In the spring of the year succeeding that in which Mr. Manley 
had left Newforth there came a lady to stay at one of the principal 
hotels — a lady dressed very handsomely, but in widow’s deepest 
mourning. She arrived late one afternoon; her luggage bore for- 
eign labels. As her dinner was being served, she talked to the 
landlord, who himself waited in the room. 

Her interest seemed to center principally in the church, about 
which she asked many questions. It was a pity the spire was not 
yet completed, she said; for somehow the work had lagged greatly 
of late; subscriptions no longer came in, and Mr. Rowen’s mild ap- 
peals were disregarded. 

“ A fortnight’s work would finish it,” said the landlord. “ Ah, 
ma’am, we want Mr. Manley back again.” 

‘‘1 heard he had gone,” said the lady, ‘‘but i did not know 
why. What made him leave?” 

” He left, ma'am, because he was under a bit of a cloud.” 

*‘ What cloud?” 

The landlord hesitated. 

‘‘I am particularly interested in news of him,” said the lady. 
*‘ I beg you will tell me all you can.” 

He then entered into the fullest particulars of the late vicar’s 
troubles, the story losing nothing in the telling. The lady’s face 
assumed an expression of the deepest concern. 

“And 1 never to have been told of this?” she said. “ I am 
deeply grieved.” 

Thus encouraged, the landlord enlarged on the tale still further. 

“And 1 will say this, ma’am,” he continued, “that he was as 
pleasant a gentleman to speak to as ever lived, and had a kind word 
for every one.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEWFORTH. 


165 


“ And what is your opinion? Do you think he did wrong?” she 
asked, suddenly. 

“ Well, you see, ma’am, 1 don’t think he meant harm ; and if that 
designing hussy at Fisherman’s Cove hadn’t got hold of him he 
might have been here now.” 

The lady turned away, and looked out of the window. 

‘‘ Can you give me the address of the two church-wardens?” she 
asked, after a time. 

“ Certainly, ma’am. Mi. Leslie lives at Ivnollside now; he lost 
a deal of money by the failure of a bank, caused by that swindler 
of a felluw, the manager, Carter ” — a shade of pain crossed the 
lady’s face—” and had to move into a small house. Admiral Hat- 
ton is the other; he lives at a place called The Elms.” 

“Did they remain friendly to him? ’ she asked. 

” Mr. Leslie stuck to him through thick and thin, Admiral Hat- 
ton quarreled outright. You see, his daughter was engaged to Mr. 
Manley, and the admiral didn’t like the goings on at the Cove.” 

” Was the engagement broken off for this reason/'” she asked, 
in a constrained voice. 

“Oh, yes, ma’am; entirely so. He was rare fond of her, 'tis 
said; but she wouldn't have anything more to say to him.” 

“You say the mayor was one of the most prominent persons at 
these meetings.?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And where does he live?” 

% 

The landlord told her; she noted down the address, and went to 
her room to put on her bonnet. 

She called first on the vicar, but he was out. She nex* went to 
Mr. Leslie’s. On the road young Mr. Allen' met her, looking at 
her with undisguised curiosity. She pulled her veil over her face, 
and walked on, coloring perceptibly. Mr. Leslie was at home. 

“ 1 have come, sir,” she said, in a very sweet voice, the tone of 
which, he thought, was familiar to him, “ to ask you to see that a 
great wrong shall be righted. I am sure you will do so, for 1 have 
heard of your good-will toward Mr. Manley.” 

Mr. Leslie’s face lit up with pleasure. 

“Is it about him?” he asked. “1 assure you, madam, that 
nothing in life would give me greater pleasure than to see him 
righted.” 

“ 1 have been told,” said the lady, somewhat nervously, “ that 
a great scandal arose concerning his visits to Fisherman’s Cove. He 
cam 6 to see me — me and my husband.” 


1(36 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWEORTH. 

“ You repeated Mr. Leslie, in surprise. “ 1 understood he 
visited some working- woman.” 

She colored. 

“ We had reasons for representing working people-— very painful 
reasons. 1 am Mr. Manley’s sister.” 

He crossed over and shook hands with her. 

“My dear madam, I am rejoiced; 1 am overjoyed. 1 always 
knew it was ail right, and now I will make it known without delay 
all over .Newforth. But why did he conceal the fact?” 

“My husband had put himself within reach of the law,” she 
said, in a low voice, “ and 1 asked my brother to help us to get 
away to the coast of France quietly. Be did so. My husband 
was very ill at the time; he is now dead. 1 do not wish to speak 
evil of the dead and of my husband; but it is necessary that the 
facts should be known, in order that my brother, who has sufier-ed 
so unjustly, may b6 cleared. 1 will take care that, as seen as he 
hears 1 have been to you, he shall send you an account of the 
whole story in writing; but at present— my loss is so recent, and I 
loved my husband— perhaps you will kindly spare me.” 

Mr. Leslie felt much touched. 

“ We require no details from you, madam, whatever; the one 
fact is sufficient. Your face alone guarantees that; you are won- 
derfully like him.” 

‘‘I am considered so.” 

“ But how was it he never mentioned you? We never knew he 
had a sister.” 

“ We had not met since the time of my marriage; he— he disap- 
proved of my marriage, and would not visit my husband, until this 
trouble befell us. and then he came at cnce.” 

‘‘I can’t now understand it,” returned Mr. Leslie. “ Why 
could he not have told us in confidence?” 

“ He had promised us faithfully that he would not tell any one; 
we— my husband — had been so nearly captured so many times. 
We knew that he had not six months to live, and my brother, after 
a great deal of entreaty from me, consented that we should come 
down here, he thinking that in so quiet a spot as the Cove, where 
he had so constantly visited without remark, we should entirely es- 
cape notice. It was orilained otherwise. Had you all known I 
was his sister, the police would have known it too; it was only the 
want cf knowledge that I had relations which pievented their track- 
ing us. And though all this trouble has befallen my brother en- 
tirely through us, his reputation taken from him, his church gone, 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


107 


bis engagement broken eft, yet, Mr. Leslie, would you believe that, 
beyond stating the bare iact that his engagement was bioken off, 
and that he had resigned his living, he never told me one word of 
his troubles in the two letters 1 received from him.” 

4 ‘ And where is he now?” 

‘‘Alas! 1 do not know. When last 1 heard of him he was in 
the heart of llie bush.” 

*‘ He never writes here,” said Mr. Leslie; “ but 1 don’t wonder 
at that. Will you not tell me your name?” 

She colored again. 

‘‘lam known by the name of Mrs. Reginald, but— but it is not 
my real name. It necessary, 1 will tell it you.” 

V Certainly not,” said Mr. Leslie, heartily; ‘‘it i3 no business of 
ours. Also,” he adde'd, after a pause, “1 do not see why 1 need 
tell any one that Reginald is not your real name, if you would ra- 
ther 1 did not.” 

“ You are very kind, very kind indeed; I should greatly prefer 
it.” 

‘‘ 1 will make the fact known that you are Mr. Manley’s sister 
all over the place to-day, without an hour’s delay. 1 am rejoiced, 
Mrs. Reginald, rejoiced.” 

Then an idea seemed to strike Mrs. Reginald. She looked up 
tremulously. When she looked grave she w T as wonderfully like 
her brother; but her face did not lighten as did his when he smiled. 
The likeness brought ail Mr. Leslie’s warm friendship to his re- 
membrance; he longed to clasp the former vicar’s hand. 

‘‘Mr. Leslie,” the lady said, with some agitation, 44 1 can not 
accept, on my brother’s part, your kindness without telling you 
whom you are helping. But, before doing so, 1 would beseech your 
forbearance.” 

‘‘lam quite in the dark as to what you mean, Mrs. Reginald,” 
he replied; 4 ‘ but any service 1 could render him would be but part 
payment of the great debt of gratitude I owe him for all he has 
done for me— has made me, 1 may say.” 

“ It seems to me,” said Mrs. Reginald, in so low a tone that he 
could barely catch the words, “ that I and mine have wrought 
nothing but ill. Every worldly prospect of my brother's, my hus- 
band and 1 have destroyed, while as for you, and many others in 
your position, ch, Mr Leslie, forgive us, forgive my husband— my 
husband, who is deads” 

As she spoke she raised her hands beseechingly. He began to 
wonder it she were mad. 


168 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ What air 1 tc forgive?” he asked, in wonder. 

" You have lost a great deal of money, have you not, through 
Farmer's bank failing?” 

“ I have,” returned Mr. Leslie, hotly, “ and all through that 
double-dyed scoundrel and villain, Carter. If 1 could only catch 
the rascal!”-- for the memory ol his wrongs was almost too much 
for Mr. Leslie at times. 

“ He is beyond your reach,” she said, with a tone of agony in 
her voice; ‘‘he — lie was my husband.” 

Mr. Leslie turned sharply round, and walked to the window. He 
stood there, with his back turned to the room, his mind full of the 
strongest indiguation. So he, who had been the one man in the 
place who had stood by the vicar, had helped him in every possible 
way, had been the one man who had been injured, and deeply in- 
jured, bv that vicar’s nearest relations. 

At first he felt auger against Mr. Manley. What right had he to 
secure his help under false pretenses? Ought he not at least to have 
told him the circumstances, if him alone? And then he thought he 
heard the vicar’s sad voice saying, as on the day he met him, *‘ 1 
have given my word that I will not say anything.” No, he did 
wrong to be angry with him; any day his word had been as good 
as his bond. But as for this scoundrel Carter— for him he had no 
forgiveness, nor, he thought, was it possible that he ever should 
have. And he, of all people, to be called on by this man’s wife to 
right the wrong caused by this man’s crimes. No! he would not 
do it. He stood thus some ten minutes, lost in angry thought. 

“ Mr. Leslie,” said Mrs. Carter, tn a quiet voice. 

He turned and faced her. 

“ It is too much to think you can forgive me and mine, 1 know 
you can not. 1 think I will go to Admiral Hatton, and ask him to 
slate the true facts about my brother; it is hopeless to expect it now 
from you. 1 did not intend to tell you so much as 1 have done, 
but 1 felt 1 could not receive your kindness under false pretenses.” 

‘‘No, no,” returned Mr. Leslie, hastily; ‘‘don’t go yet. Sit 
down again. 1 don’t want you to have to tell your painful story 
again to Admiral Hatton. You must give me time to think.” 

“Ah!” said Mrs. Carter, “ we have wronged him too, and his 
daughter, in being unconsciously the cause of the engagement with 
my brother being broken. It seems to me we have wronged every 
one." 

Her handsome dress struck Mr. Leslie’s eye; his anger returned 
in full force. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 169 

“ So,’' he said lo Uimself, “ 1 suppose they have been living on 
the fat of tlie land in a foieign country, on the money defrauded 
from the widows and orphans, and me, while 1 could barely afford 
to give a beggarly two guineas to the spire fund ” — which fund he 
had deeply at heart.” 

“ And did you spend all the money be took?” he asked, sharply. 

“ Oh, no,” she replied, earnestly; ** you must not indeed wrong 
me so much. We were very poor indeed, living entirely on my 
brother’s money.” 

“ But what did— ycur husband he was on the point of say- 
ing “ that villain “ what did your husband do with ic?” 

“ 1 can not tell you. 1 know no more than you do. He was in 
league with a stock-broker, 1 know, who took the lion’s share of 
the spoil, and squandered thousands. My— my husband con- 
stantly appropriated more deeds and bonds out of sheer dread lest 
his foimer defalcations should be discovered; this man made him 
do it. He, 1 believe, is still a respectable member of society ’’—she 
said this with much bitterness — “ but, at the same time, a very 
large parcel of bonds and deeds, covering sums of enormous value, 
has entirely disappeared. My husband had it with him when he 
left London; but he was then ill, and at times quite oblivious of 
his actions. Many and many a time did he try to recall where he 
had placed it, but without avail. He remembered having deposited 
it in some hiding-place— some sale hiding-place, but where, no 
effort of will could recall to his mind. Would that 1 could find it! 
I would restore it instantly.” 

* Mr. Leslie involuntarily glanced at her handsome dress. 

“ Vou are looking at what 1 wear,” she said, simply; “it was 
all given me by my aunt, with whom 1 am now living. 1 have 
not a shilling in the world but what she allows me. She has pai l 
my expenses for coming to this place. 1 came, because 1 wished 
to ascertain if there were any news of my brother; but 1 should 
have come as soon as my husband was buried, if I could only have 
known the great wreng that had been done.” 

Her words recalled to Mr. Leslie the vicar’s great troubks, which 
he had forgotten in hi-3 own. He remembered all his goodness, his 
kindness, his zeal and unostentatious and heartfelt religion, his ex- 
ample, so much more powerful than any precept. 

His face cleared, he spoke gently. 

”1 am very sorry tor you, Mrs. Carter— very sorry, indeed. 
And as I have always had the most hearty and genuine regard and 
admiral ioD tor your brother, I will now do my utmost to right 


170 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


him, as far as may be possible. You need not go to any one else; 
rest assured that 1 will do as much as any man.” 

”1 am sure of it,” she replied, giatefully; ‘‘you aie a good 
man, Mr. Leslie.” 

‘‘No, I am not a good man,” lie replied, bluntly. “A good 
man would forgive your husband, and that 1 can’t, and won’t do.” 

She threw herself on her knees before him, her hands upraised, 
her face, beautiful in its emotion, quivering. 

‘‘1 think you would forgive him, Mr. Leslie, if you knew all. 
He was never a good man — never a good man, think of that! You 
live respected and honored; you have your wife, your children, 
your home, and, above all, your religion. He had none. 1 knew 
he was a bad man, but 1 loved him, Mr. Leslie; I loved him better 
than my own life. He had no safeguard; when temptation assailed 
him, he fell. And fierce temptations assailed him. 1 say, without 
hesitation, that a man engaged iu stock-broking transactions, and 
what is called city life, is in mortal danger to his soul when he has 
no religion to uphold him. Men do pass through the ordeal un- 
tainted, but it is so as by fiie, only those whose sense of honor is 
great. And, after all, how great the struggle!” 

Mr. Leslie placed her in a chair; the tears were streaming down 
her cheeks. He wished himself anywhere but in his present posi- 
tion. 

*‘ Why do you tell me this?” he said, kindly; “you are only 
distressing yourself.” 

'* Because 1 want you to forgive him,” she said, earnestly; ‘‘ and 
because I think that if you do, others may. I want your pardon, 
in earnest of the pardon of others.” 

Mr. Leslie again turned toward the window; saying, “ I don’t 
think 1 can forgive him; 1 don’t feel like it.” 

** Must I tell you even more?” she cried, appealingly; ‘‘ must 1 
say that even when he died 1 tried to hope, but— but, alas! it was 
only hope that I had. Oh, Mr. Leslie, if 1 were a clergyman, 1 
would tell people from morning till night that how they died was 
of very little consequence; it was how they lived. To imagine that 
at such a time any one has room in his mind for much more than 
his present feelings has always seemed to me sheer folly.” 

‘‘Did not the vicar talk to your husband?” asked Mr. Leslie, 
his back still turned. 

“ He did all that a good man could do. He came day after day 
and night after night to him, to endeavor to rouse in him some 
feeling. I think— 1 know— he in some measure succeeded. But, 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 171 

as I said before, when you are ill and weak what can you think of 
but your bodily ailments? It is when you are well that you must 
think.” 

“ How did he die?” asked Mr. Leslie, with some feeling. 

Very quietly. He died of consumption— rapid consumption 
W e knew iie could not liye long. Do you then blame my brother 
for saving him from a felon’s dock and a felon’s death, and me 
from a worse— if worse "be possible — recollection than 1 have al-j 
ready? My heart would have broken when 1 saw him standing 
to be judged, and my brother knew it. He is always so merciful 
in his judgment of others, aud he spoke to my husband words that 
1 shall never forget. Mr. Leslie, will you forgive your wrongs? 
1 think you will, when you call to mind what was the end of him 
who committed them. He died an outcast — a man so disgraced 
that his widow dares not even take his name, and to support her 
in her grief for him has only— hope 1” 

Her voice failed her, she covered her face with her hands. 

And then Mr. Leslie thought of Mr. Manley, and the wrongs that 
he had forgiven the dead man— forgiven them so completely that 
he had not even spoken of them to his sister. He had supported 
them in their poverty; but he had done far more— he had spoken 
words of gentleness and goodness and love, had shown by his life 
what he believed. This was indeed forgiveness. These visits to 
the Cove, about which so much mischief had been made, had then 
not only been to the wife, for the purpose of arranging their trans- 
portation to France — cf itself a difficult and dangerous task under 
the circumstances— but they had been to the sinful, crime-stained 
husband, to try to bring him to a knowledge of better things. And 
this was the man whom Newforth bad sent away— this man, who 
had shown himself more than a hero, and throughout all his trouble 
had comported himself more than bravely. 

And then Mr. Leslie felt ashamed when he thought of himself, ■ 
and the difference between his lot and Mr. Manley’s. He had lost 
money, it was true; but what appreciable comfort? While here 
was this man, under a blazing Australian sun, toiling among sav- 
ages probably without a murmur. He felt a strange huskiness in 
his throat as he turned to Mrs. Carter, and said, gravely, “ 1 for- 
give him from my heart, and may the Lord have mercy on his 
soul 1” 


172 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


CHAPTER XL. 

MR. MANLEY’S SISTER. 

It was true, as Mrs. Carter had stated, that, in permitting their 
residence in Fisherman’s Cove, the vicar bad thought that two 
< poor-looking people would be unobserved, and might, without 
much difficulty, be got over to one of the quiet French villages, 
where Mr. Carter might die unknown and unnoticed. 

The facts had been these: During Mr. Manley’s residence at 
Cambridge Mr. Carter had been a fellow-student of his. He had 
known him well at one time, as had Mr. Yorke, and had permitted 
him to make acquaintance with his family, his sister being then a 
child. But, as time went on, Mr. Manley had refused to recognize 
him even as an acquaintance, tor many circumstances had come to 
his knowledge through being a clergyman which were unknown to 
the world at large. He knew for a fact that he had appropriated 
his sister’s trust-money, had kept back bonds, had swindled in 
every way whicli would just keep him without the law, as con- 
cerned strangers. With regard to his transactions with his own 
relations he could have been arrested over and over again, but be 
knew his relations would not prosecute, and he lived to all appear- 
ance a happy life, making friends in every direction, and betraying 
them on every convenient opportunity. 

During a visit at a country-house he met Miss Manley, who was 
staying there also, and completely won her heart. He possessed a 
singularly attractive manner, which, combined with a handsome 
lace, gained him much admiration from all the young ladies in the 
house; and Miss Manley felt very proud of her conquest when he 
proposed to her. 

Her father had been dead for many years, her mother had died 
lately. But, on v^riting to her brother to inform him of her en- 
gagement, she was greatly surprised and displeased at being told 
that, though he had no legal authority over her, yet. as her nearest 
relation, he absolutely refused his consent. But he was not con- 
tent with writing. He went to her. and in the kindest, gentlest 
manner, urged her to sacritice her love to her principle. He told 
her ot Mr. Carter’s character; he warned her that, she w'ould never 
be happy with him. But it was of no use. Bhe was desperately 
in love with him, and hud quite made up her mind to marry him, 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 173 

saying she did not believe any of the stories she had been told 
against him. 

Finding argument and entreaty of no use, Mr. Manley took his 
resolution. He told his sister that he would not visit on friendly 
terms with a man whom he knew to be both a swindler and a liar, 
and that, as husband and wife can not be separated by their rela- 
tions, bis sister must choose between him and Mr. Carter. She did 
so, and chose the latter; whereupon Mr. Manley held no communi- 
cation with them whatever until soon after he came to Newforth, 
when he received an imploring letter frcm his sister, telling him 
they were in great trouble; would he go to London without delay, 
and meet her at the Charing Cross Hotel? 

It was quite enough for Mr. Manley to know that any one was 
in trouble; he went up to town without delay. In the course of 
an affecting meeting with his sister, she told him that, in some 
manner unknown to her, her husband had abstracted one thousand 
pounds from the bank, and if it were not replaced at once he would 
lose his responsible position. 

The vicar had replied that it was quite out of his power to pay a 
thousand pounds, neither did he feel at all inclined to compound 
a felony. But his sister’s distress so worked on him— for he was 
greatly attached to her — that finaly he promised he would raise all 
the money in his power to help. This was the reason of his severe 
economy at the time when he discharged one of his servants: but 
he asked himself many a time whether he were right in paying 
Mr. Carter’s defalcations He little dreamed that thousands upon 
thousands had been already stolen from the bank, and that this 
money— this hardly obtained money— was to go only to Mr. Car- 
ter’s friend the stockbroker, who had threatened , to expose him if 
the funds were not forthcoming. 

For a time after this the vicar had lived in tranquillity— which 
tranquillity had been rudely disturbed on the failure of the bank, 
and the consequent revelations. At first Mr. Manley had declared 
that he would do nothing; but his sister’s great distress, and the 
knowledge that Carter could not live long, had decided him to 
help them. 

What danger they weie in he knew, and it was not until they 
had gone through many and many a narrow escape of detection 
that they came down to Fisherman’s Cove. 

Mr. Manley had at first thought that he was not justified in mar- 
rying Ethel, without acquainting her of the fact of his relationship 
to a swindler. But his sister had urged that Mr. Carter was no 


174 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


relation ol his, and that, having cut off the connection years ago, 
he was by no means bound to resume it now; which view Mr. 
Manley, alter a time, adopted. It was then that the scandal had 
arisen, no word of which had he mentioned to his sister, knowing 
how greatly it would add to her distress. 

He had indeed been merciful. He had known that although 
Mrs. Carter had retained her love for her Husband, he had treated 
her anything hut well during their married life— had been cold and 
careless and indifferent. But seeing how ereatiy he stood in need 
of forgiveness on all points, the vicar had resolved to forgive him 
all, and after a struggle — a somewhat severe struggle— bad done 
so most completely. 

In every way he had tried to awaken his seared conscience; lie 
had talked to, he had prayed with him. And the man who, when 
reading to a small week-day congregation, would substitute the 
word “condemnation” for that other stronger-sounding though 
self-meaning word (as found in the Hew Version), lest he should 
offend a brother or sister who was weak, did not now presume to 
say that mercy was not to be found even for Mr. Carter, and had 
bidden his sister — hope. 


CHAPTER XL1. 

MR. LESLIE’S CHARACTER. 

The news received by Mr. Leslie had greatly astonished him; 
for some time after Mrs. Carter had gone away (and here it may 
be mentioned that she left Newforth that very night) he remained 
pondering over what he had heard. 

JSow, Mr. Leslie was a man who greatly sympathized with what 
is termed “ Muscular Christianity,” and found it much easier to 
do a kind action than to go to church eften, and perpetually repeat 
prayers. 

“ 1 must be the wrong sort of fellow,” he had been heard to say; 
“ but 1 couldn’t go on at it in church, as parsons do, to save my 
life.” 

On this occasion, having been much moved, he was of opinion 
that hi3 forgiveness should not be merely of a negative order; but 
would be best shown by suppressing the whole of the painful facts 
that Mrs. Caiter had told him from every one except his wife, she 
being one of the few women who he knew could keep a secret; 
and that, in order to put Mr. Manley right in the eyes of the wcrld. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEWEORTH. 175 

it was only necessary to say that a Mr. and Mrs. Reginald were 
staying in Fisherman's Cove, and that Mrs. Reginald liad been the 
vicar’s sister, which fact he had solemnly promised not to reveal, 
Mr. Reginald being under a cloud at the time, having put himself 
within reach of the law. He knew also that Mr. Mauley would 
far rather that his relationship with so notorious a swindler as Mr. 
Carter should not be known, for the late vicar was not a man with- 
out pride of birth. He came of a good stock, and was pleased that 
he could trace his descent in an unbroken line to the year 1113, 
almost all his ancestors having belonged either to the old nobility 
or landed gentry. 

Whether they came over with the Conqueror or not he did not 
know, and certainly did not care; the idea that every one could 
have ancestors who did so being a little too much for his credulity. 
He had been heard to state with great satisfaction that when, on 
one occasion, an offshoot of the Manley family fell sHlow as 
actually to be obliged to enter the work- house, the name was so 
much respected in the county' that they allowed him to wear his 
own clothes, and did not compel him to put on work-house dress. 

At nine Mrs. L-slie, who had been visfting Mrs. Hatton, came in. 

“ You seem very thoughtful tc-night, Frank,” she said, observ- 
ing her husband’s grave countenance. 

Haw Mi. and Mrs. Leslie were a most attached couple, and 
throughout their married life had never had a quarrel, which state 
of affairs few married people can boast of. They might have 
claimed Dunmow flitches of bacon without end, Mr. Leslie was 
wont to say. 

Mrs. Leslie had begun her married life with a most sincere affec- 
tion for her husband, but without any ideas of ecstatic bliss. 
Starting with the theory that every man had certain peculiarities, 
she had resolved that, whatever her husband’s might be, she would 
conform to them. She said to him one day, “ Men are such eccen- 
tric beings that 1 discovered long ago that the only way to under- 
stand them is to confess that you don't understand them; you are 
then prepared for any little vagaries on their part, and can condone 
a great deal.” She did so, and Mr. Leslie, who was not always an 
easy man to deal with, believed that there was not such another 
woman in the world. With the exception of displaying an over- 
plus of china when Ihey had lived in their large house, he thought 
everything right that she did. Since their marriage he had never 
once found fault with her. 

She said sometimes, Frank is the last person to whom 1 would 


176 ' THE BACHELOB VICAB OF NEWFOETH. 


go if 1 wanted an opinion, for he believes in me altogether too 
much. I can not do wrong in his eyes;” and though she would 
at times gladly have consulted her husband, this very knowledge 
prevented her from attaching much weight 1o his counsel in con- 
nection witu her. As a rule, if anything troubled her, she kept it 
to herself, knowing that it would cause him distress, and in most 
cases quite unnecessary distress. 

For herself, she had certainly been under the impression that a 
man so greatly in love as Mr. Leslie had been (and so continuousl}' 
attached to her afterward) would have confided some of his 
thoughts to her, as well as his outward actions. But it was not 
so. Living in the utmost affection and harmony, they yet never 
spoke to one another of their deeper thoughts. He felt sure that 
she was— as he put it — on the right side, and she hoped and thought 
that he was; but open mention of any except suiface ideas there 
was none. 

On this occasion Mr. Leslie did not say a word about Mrs. Car- 
ter’s request that he would forgive her husband, or that he had 
promised to do so. He told her the main facts of the story, and 
urged upon her that she should keep it as secret as he intended to 
do. y 

41 And what are you going to do now about Mr. Manley?” she 
asked, her eyes sparkling — 44 Mr. Manley, who has been so shame- 
fully treated.” 

44 That 1 must take time to think about,” he replied, *‘ but, de- 
pend upon it, I will not leave a stone unturned.” 


CHAPTER XLI1. 

REPARATION. 

^ \ 

44 Harry,” exclaimed Miss Hatton, running to meet Captain 1 
Worsley, in great excitement— 44 Harry! what do you think?” 

“I think,” responded the young man, good-temperedly, 44 that 
it is a fine day, and that you are looning very jolly, and that ] have 
come to spend the day with you; but 1 don’t know that I think 
much else besides, except that 1 am awfully gad to see you.” 

Miss Hatton paid little attention to this speech. 

44 It’s about the vicar, Harry— our late vicar, Mr. Manley— who 
was the best and the nicest and the most charming man that ever 
lived, and the worst treated by the wretched people cf Newforth.” 

The young man laughed. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 177 

“ You shouldn’t put on too many: superlatives, Gertrude, don’t 
you know? They will stultify one anottier. Now, be a little more 
explicit, and tell me what this angelic being has been and gone and 
done and suffered.” 

“ You may well say, ‘ been and done and suffered,’ ” returned 
Miss Hatton, “ and most nobly suffered. But as it is a fact that he 
has also ‘ been and gone ,’ 1 don’t see what retribution can be made, 
or how he can be compensated in any way for all he has gone 
through. We can’t ask Mr. Rowen to go aw T ay.” 

She entered then into a lengthy account of the whole affair, by 
no means sparing her sister in her recital. 

“To think,” she continued, indignantly, “that his face alone 
could not have convinced Ethel of hi« truth. Why, his expression 
spoke for itself!” 

“ Were you in love with him, my dear?” asked Captain Wors- 
ley, with a •smile. 

“ Well, you see, Harry,” she replied, laughing, “I hadn’t the 
chance, because Irom the time he first came, be showed so openly 
that he preferred Ethel. But,” she added, mischievously, “ there 
is no saying what 1 might have done had he asked me to marry 
him, because, as 1 have often said, he is the sort of man that any 
girl might like.” 

“ Now you’re trying to make me sa\age,” said Captain Worsley, 
with' good temper; “ but go on as much as you like, my dear. 
I’m not one of your fire-eating fellows, who things that because he 
likes a girl she ought to live in a glass case, and not so much as 
know there is another man in the w T orld. I’m not jealous.” 

“ That’s right, Harry,” said Miss Hatton, warmly. “ Of course 
you’re not, and have no cause to be. But 1 can’t help being a little 
excited about this news.” 

And some further conversation ensued about the late vicar. 

“ If 1 wrote a dictionary,” she said at length, “ 1 should put an 
entirely new meaning to the word ‘ vicar.’ ” 

“ And what might that be?” 

“It would run thus: ‘ Vicar- - a word signifying a man who 
helps every one, and serves every one, and is good to every one, 
and, in some cases, is put upon and imposed upon by every one.’ ” 

Captain Worsley laughed. 

“ That’s quite wrong, Gertrude,” he said. “ Listen to my defini- 
tion: ‘ Vicar— a man who has a precious easy time of it; who is 
flattered and praised and run after by ladies, and invited out and 


178 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP NEWPORTH. 


pampered and coddled— all because his surplice is becoming, and 
he has the power of making sweet speeches.’ ” 

“ Harry! you are a perfect wretch; you know it isn’t true. What 
about your father?” for Captain YVorsley's father had been a 
clergyman. 

“ My fathei,” said Captain Worshy— “ my father was the jolli- 
est old boy going, and, if he had been a young man, wculd have 
proved the truth of my words. He had a precious easy life, I’m 
sure. Read two services a day on Sunday, and shut up his church 
during the remainder of the week, when he was going out to din- 
ners and luncheons.” 

“ I suppose he had to preach.” 

Captain Worsley laughed. 

“ Oh, yes, he preached two sermons a week; and it’s a most re- 
markable thing that they bore a wonderful resemblance to a book of 
sermons extending over three years, that we had in the house, prov- 
ing, without a doubt, that great minds often run in the same 
groove. I often used to hear the ladies say, ‘ How well Mr. Worsley 
preaches!’ ‘ Such originality of idea,’ and so on.” 

“ You are horrid to talk of your father so, Harry,” said Miss 
Hatton, who could not forbear frcm a laugh; “but our vicar al- 
ways composed his own sermons. However, if it will please you, 1 
will allow he had one fault: he didn’t always shake hands as if he 
meant it. Indeed, his usual hand-shake was quite aggravating; it 
conveyed so plainly, * Pray understand that I don’t extend any 
real warmth of feeling toward you.’ ” 

They had been sitting in the dining-ioom. Ethel now came in, 
and asked them to go into the drawing-room, as the cloth had to 
be laid for dinner. 

She listened to her sister’s last remark, and remembered that Mr. 
Manley had always held her hand in a warm lingering pressure. She 
was now suffering greatly. She had heard Mr. Leslie’s account, 
and her remorse was very gieat. She could not lose the thought of 
her own folly in distrusting him; she positively hated herself. But, 
at the same time, she did not think the explanation sufficient. 
What cloud could this Mr. Reginald— whom no one had ever heard 
of— be under to justify Mi. Mauley in entirely destroying his hap- 
piness and hers by not telling her Mrs. Reginald w T as his sister. 
Greatly as she grieved; still she cculd not think he could have had 
any sufficient excuse for his reticence to her. 

As Mr, Leslie had declared he would do, he left no stone un- 
turned. Not content with going round personally to nearly every 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


179 


one he knew, he summoned a public meeting, at which he took 
care that reporters should be present. He then stated such fads 
as he considered advisable, and made so strong and convincing a 
speech in Mr. Manley’s favor that every one in the room felt 
ashamed to think of the manner in which so good a man had been 
driven away from them. 

“ Yes,” said the mayor (who had been re-elected), meditatively, 
“ 1 said at the time that perhaps we ’ad been a little ’asty, and 1 
see we ’ave. Perhaps some compensation—” and he fingered his 
purse as if with the idea of offering Mr. Manley a five-pound ncte! 

A brilliant idea at once struck Mr. Leslie. 

‘‘The only compensation we can make him,” he said, ‘‘is by- 
carrying forward and at once completing the work he had at heart. 
Let us now subscribe for the spire fund.” For he was well aware 
that public feeling is very fleeting and fluctuating, and that in the 
first glow of their indignation and regret the congregation would 
be likely to contribute far more handsomely than when they had to 
a certain extent cooled down. He knew that Mr. Manley would 
have said that the money was of far less value than the spiiit in 
which it was given; but, for his part, he was quite willing to take 
people’s money without their feelings. These he considered might 
be thrown in gratis , but that was purely optional. 

His suggestion was received with acclamation, and the requisite 
money to complete the work was subscribed in the room. As for 
the peal of bells, they were quite finished and ready to be hung. 
By the end of April the spire was completed, the vane flying, and, 
to the great delight of the parishioners, the first peal had been rung. 

As to Mrs. Vincent, she was cverjoyed that the vicar’s name 
was cleared at last, and Captain Vincent also expressed himself 
much pleased. To celebrate the proceeding, she declared that she 
should name the bells in the following manner; The clock bell was 
to be “ Mr. Manley.” Then followed " The Vicar,” “ Theophi- 
lus,” John ” (Mr. Manley’s second name); and as, said Mrs. Vin- 
cent, the company was so very good, she wished herself and her 
husband to be among it, and would therefore call two of the re- 
maining bells “ Rupert ” and Amaryllis,” their Christian names. 
The other twe bells she altogether declined to narhe, some vague 
idea that Mr. Manley might one day return and name them himself 
actuating her. 

As for Captain Vincent, he roared with laughter at the names 
selected, and said it would be the joke cf the town. But she de- 
clared that Captain Vincent’s wife could do no wrong inHewforth, 


180 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


and it was her wish that it should be so, in order to show the peo- 
ple how completely it was owing to Mr. Manley that they had the 
bells at all. 

The names were known all 07er the town, where the joy at the 
late vicar's rehabilitated character was great; and, as the clock bell 
struck, it was no uncommon thing lor the passing mariners to say, 
“ There goes ‘ Manley;’ he’s striking eleven, he is.” 


CHAPTER XL1I1. 

CAMBERWELL LIFE. 

Mr. Leslie was passing along the top ol the cliffs one day when 
he met Ethel Hatton. Now, he had always felt a great degree of 
indiguation, as far as she was concerned; and, seeing how appar- 
ently indifferent she was looking, he decided that she was not at all 
feeling recent events as she ought. 

He joined her, and made a hasty resolution that, under pledge 
of absolute secrecy, he would tell her the whole story. “ She isn’t 
good enough for him,” he thought, ” but who knows, il the truth 
is told, whether oue day they might not make it up between them, 
should he ever return from this missionary business.” 

”1 want to speak to you about Mr. Manley, Miss Ethel,” he 
said, with some degree of asperity. And then, on her giving her 
word that she would reveal the circumstances to no one, he told 
her the entire history of Mr. and Mrs. Carter. 

She listened in silence, her color coming and going. 

“ Mr. Leslie,” she said, when he had finished, “ if you wished to 
bring my unhappiness still more closely home to me, you have suc- 
ceeded. Still, 1 am very glad to know the real circumstances;” and, 
with a bow, she left him. 

She took the cliff-path and walked on toward the Cove, then, 
changing her mind, she crossed the high road and entered the well- 
remembered wood. On this sweet spring day the wood w r as deli- 
cious; but she heeded no outward circumstances, she felt utterly 
crushed by her grief and regret. ” O Phil!” she exclaimed, “if 
ycu would only come back to me, 1 do not think there would be 
any w T ay loo hard for me to show my love to you.” But she knew 
that he would not come back, or even if by any chance he should 
return to the place, she alone out of every one might not welcome 
him. She w r as sure that every one else would receive him with joy 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


181 


and acclamation— all except the one woman who loved him better 
than all the world. 

Then she began to wonder what she could do to prove that she 
repented of her past want of trust in him. It any course ot action 
could be discovered, she would gladly lulfill it. To some min tls 
there is a marvelous attraction in the idea ot expiatory religion; 
Ethel’s was one ot them. She would then have joined the Church 
of Rome, and have spent her time in prayer and penance, if she 
could have believed in that church. But she did not believe in it; 
and she was also aware that. Mr. Manley, though he judged neither 
creed nor sect, personally had but little faith in it. In addition, 
she remembered how continuously he had urged on his hearers the 
prior claims ot home duties, and how wrong it was in his sight to 
forsake these for sentimental claims. If she would please him, she 
must not then seek for outside duties, unless they should be sent 
her. But she tvas very wietched. Her home occupations were 
not sufficient to engross her, and although she still visited hei dis- 
trict, and went to church, this latter recalled Mr. Manley so 
strongly to her mind that, very often, instead of attending to the 
service, she was simply lost in thoughts of him and his where- 
abouts. But now a call for outside work arose most unexpectedly. 

There was living in London a sister of her father’s, a cold, dis- 
agreeable, and narrow-minded woman. Rone of the family had 
seen her for some years; the admiral never went to town, Mrs. Par- 
ker never went to Kewforth. She bad three young children, whom 
none of the Hattons had ever seen. One morning in this spring a 
letter arrived from Mrs. Parker’s doctor, saying that she had had 
a stroke of paralysis, and, as she seemed to have neither relations 
nor intimate friends, he wished to know what was to be done. 

Admiral Hatton at once went to London to Icok into the state of 
affairs. On his return he said that his sister had recovered her 
speech, but was very helpless still. The house was in the greatest 
disorder, and she greatly wished that Gertiude or Ethel might go 
to live with her tor a time to keep house; but that, he said, he had 
told hei was out of the question. 

Ethel listened attentively, and thought that surely this was the 
call for which she had been waiting. 

“ I will go, father,” she said. 

“ Nonsense,” returned the admiral; “it’s not a fit house for 
you to go to, all at sixes and sevens! and in such a ntighboi'hood, 
too ?' ’ 

“ Some one ought to go,” she replied. “ You say Aunt Marion 


182 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


is t(.o poor to engage a nuise. Of course, mother can not leave you 
and the house; Gertrude can not go, on account of Harry; while 
I,’' she added, sadly, “ have no one who particularly wants me.” 

Some argument ensued. Admiral Hatton was very much against 
her going. His sister had married beneath her, and, although her 
husband was now dead, he could not overcome his dislike to the 
entire connection. 

“ One of my daughters to go to a hole of a place in Camber- 
well,” he said. “ where there will be neither a breath of fresh air, 
nor society, nor even decent comfort!” 

“1 shall not go' for the sake of enjoying myself,” said Ethel. 
“I suppose it is quite certain that Aunt Marion can not be left 
alone, and that some ODe must go. Why not 1 as well as any one 
else?” 

You are not strong enough,” he urged. But Ethel declared 
that she was stronger than she looked. 

“ 1 really am afraid that she must go,” now said her mother. 
“ She is anxious to do so, and she can but return should the work 
prove too heavy for her. 1 do not see else what is to become of 
your sister.” 

So, after some argument, it was arranged, and Ethel bid fare- 
well to Newforth for a time. 

It was not without reason that Admiral Hatton described his 
sister’s house as ” a hole of a place.” 

It was one of a small, dingy row, in a shabby, unfrequented 
street. There was no traffic to speak of in it, but none the less 
was there no fresh air. 

Now that the summer was approaching, the heat was great, the 
air was heavy and misty; and, even on the day of her coming, 
Ethel pined for the fresh sea air. 

On her arrival, her heart had sunk within her. On leaving the 
cab which brought her, she had noted the limp, drabby muslin 
curtains that hung fiom what was called the drawing-room win- 
dows. But what a drawing-room! Their own was shabbv, 
but it was not pretentious; it was also large, and always filled 
with flowers and books, and little trifles of ladies' work, and so. 
on. Here a gaudy-patterned carpet adorned the floor, imitation 
wax flow T er sand fruit abounded, the chintz furniture was torn, 
and large but vilely executed pictures hung on the walls. The chil- 
dren’s toys were scattered about the room, the antimacassars 
(crochet-work antimacassars) hung awry. 

The slovenly maid-of-all-work said she would call tfce children. 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEWBORTH. 


183 


Down they came, pell-mell, liellei -skelter, and rushed up to kiss 
her. Their mouths were very dirty, their hair in frightful disorder. 
Ethel smiled faintly, and tried to look as if she were glad to see 
them. Alas! she was not glad. She took out her handkerchief 
and surreptitiously wiped off the mark of their sticky lips from 
her cheek. There were three children— Georgina, aged twelve; 
Robert, aged ten; and Madeline, aged eight. 

A message came down that Mrs. Parker would be glad to see 
Ethel. She went into an untidy passage, the oilcloth frayed out 
on either side, and up a very shabbily carpeted staircase. Her aunt’s 
room was on the first landing. Here the same untidiness and 
squalor prevailed. 

Mrs. Parker was sitting up in bed. She was a woman of forty- 
five, but looked older. Her face was withered, and drawn with 
pain; her eyeA gleamed from deep hollows beneath her brows; her 
whole appearance was forbidding. 

Ethel smiled, ana asked her how she was. She began to talk 
about her own ailments, and kept her niece standing beside her tor 
fully half an hour, without even asking her to take off her hat, or 
have some refreshment after her journey. 

Ethel felt as if she could have dropped before the conversation 
was over, her energy being greater than her strength. She would 
have taken a chair, but on every one there was a pile of clothes, 
books, and other articles, which she feared to disturb. At last 
she was dismissed, and went to her room. But oh, how she hated 
her room! A narrow, sloping-roofed attic, in which, except in 
the center she had barely room to stand upright. The window wa3 
simply a skylight in the roof, so that view of any 1 3ort there was 
none. The sun shone on the slates, making the heat of the room 
intense; besides, a general air of stuffiness pervaded the mattress 
and bedding— it was like musty straw. 

The toilet arrangements were exceedingly primitive— no dress- 
ing-table, a small looking-glass hung on the wall, a wash-stand, 
one chair, and a tiny cupboard, for clothes, completed the furni- 
ture. Now, both Gertrude and Ethel Hatton had always been 
exceedingly dainty as to their rooms. They were prettily orna-, 
mented with simple contrivances— flowers, sea-weeds, small knick- 
knacks, and were the pleasantest rooms in the house. Here there 
was barely space for Ethel’s trunks. She gave a sigh, and pre- 
pared to change her traveling -dress; but before she had time to un- 
button it, her door was burst open by Miss Georgina, who ex- 
claimed ; 


184 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ Ethel, tea is ready, and ma says you’re not to keep it. waiting, 
but are to come at once.” 

In the underground dining room, next the kitchen, tea was laid. 
The table-cloth was certainly not clean; a very common ill-matched 
tea-set was on the tray, a stale loaf and a pat of very London butler 
on the table. 

‘‘ You must cut some bread and butter for us,” said Georgina; 
“ we are hungry.” 

Ethel did so. 

Before she had time to pour out the tea, the pile of bread-and- 
butter had disappeared, and she was ordered to cut another. 

“ 1 wish to have some tea first,” she said. “ You must wait a 
minute or two.” 

“ Ma said you were to do what we told you,” remarked Made- 
line; “ she said so last night.” 

Ethel ignored the remark. 

“ And who sees that your mother has her tea?” she asked. 

“ Jane generally takes it, but after this ma said you must. She 
has thin bread-and-butter, you had better cut it now, and mind 
it’s cut nicely.” 

Ethel cut a slice or two, but she had never been accustomd to 
cut bread-and-butter; she was tired, and the knite slipped. It 
was scarcely a success. Such as it was, however, she sent it up 
by Jane. 

“After this, 1 should think you might take up your mother’s 
tea, Georgina,” she said. 

“ Oh, no,” returned Georgina: “ I’m sure 1 can’t; you must.” 

Down came Jane. 

*' Missus says this bread-and-butter won’t do; you must cut some 
more, Miss Hatton.” , 

Ethel obeyed, this time with better success. Her own tea was 
now quite cold, the unwonted fatigue had given her a racking 
headache, and she could not eat a morsel. 

As soon as the meal was ended she was told her aunt wanted 
her, and on her entrance she was ordered to put the room to rights 
— no easy task- -and, after that, to attend to her aunt’s wants for 
the night, fetch her supper, light the gas, and so on. 

“ You see, Ethel,” she explained, “ as you have come instead of 
a nurse, you must dc a nurse’s work and a niece’s work, too. It 
can’t be two ways. You can’t be a fine lady- visit or, and a useful 
person at the same time.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


185 


Etliel replied that she had no wish to be a fine lady-visitor, that 
she was quite prepared to help as much as lay in her power. 

“ Very well,” returned her aunt, ** that’s very satisfactory; now 
1 slia’n’t mind asking you to do anything.” 

It occurred to Ethel that she had not been troubled with many 
scruples before, but she said nothing. 

“ You must be up at six every morning, and help Jane,” was 
her aunt’s parting salutation, ‘‘ because there are the children to 
see to, and my breakfast to get early, and other things; and since 
Jane has had no one to look after her, she has always been late.” 

Punctually at six the next morning Ethel came down. The 
night before she had held a long consultation with herself as to her 
duty, and had resolved that she would make every task imposed on 
lier her duty— first, because it was right; and, secondly, but much 
easier reason, because it would prove her repentance to Phil. With 
this idea in her mind, she thought nothing would be too hard to 
bear, She attended to her aunt, made her morning meal as tempt- 
ing as might be, dressed little Madeline, and then sat down to 
breakfast. The scene of the evening before was in a great measure 
repeated, with the additional vexation of seeing Robert’s greasy 
fingers imprinted on her fresh morning-dress. 

Do you not go to school?-” she asked at length, longing to be 
free from them for an hour or two. 

“ No,” replied Georgina; “ since ma has been ill, we haven’t 
been able to afford it. She says you have had a good education, 
and you must teach us.” 

”1?” echoed Ethel, faintly^ and then she resolved that this 
heavy and unexpected duty she would fulfill to the best of her 
ability. She told the children to bring their books. They did so - 
old, shabby books most of them, and so dirty; Ethel pul a corner 
of her pocket-handkerchief between the pages and her fingers while 
touching them. She endeavored to examine the children as to 
what they already knew, but the examination ended abruptly, in 
consequence of a fight between Robert and Madeline. Unlike Mr. 
Manley, who could tame any child in a tew minutes, she did not 
lake to children, and was entirely at a loss as to how to amuse or 
interest them. But duty seeming to demand that they should re- 
ceive two hours’ instruction, she accordingly gave it; on dismissing 
them, to be met by Jane, with the message that missus couldn't 
think why she hadn’t been up to her long ago. 

She went up and listened to a catalogue of grievances concerning 
Jane. And then she gave the children their dinner, which dinner 


186 


-THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH, 


was nothing but a scramble, and sat down in the afternoon to mend 
their clothes, having to run up and down stairs whenever her 
aunt’s bell rang. By ten o’clock she was so tired she scarcely 
knew how to undress; but she determined to continue her self- 
appointed duty — her plain duty. 

The round of one day was the round of every day. She was 
sent here, there, and everywhere -out with the children, on errands 
to shops to carry home grocery or other edible parcels, and some- 
times was compelled to go messages to the doctor after dark. 
Sometimes, when sent by her aunt in the train on some errand, 
she would look frcm the window down into the crowded, narrow, 
foul streets; would remark the dismal little houses, the wretched 
strips of garden in which there were always clothes hanging out to 
dry, the miserable, wicked-looking women and men hanging about 
t he filthy courts and her heart would sicken as she thought of what 
their lives were. As for the finer parts of Loudon, she never went 
to them. With her aunt she had neither society nor amusement; 
there was only one unceasing round of work. But she bore it 
bravely, trying her hardest to improve the untidy house, to put up 
with her aunt’s temper, to sustain the many tasks set her, saying 
the while, “ It is what Phil would wish me to do; he would say I 
wasriglit.” 

In her letters home she did not detail her discomfort. She knew, 
had she done so, that she would not have been allowed to remain a 
day. She made her accounts as brief as possible, enlarging prin- 
cipally on the news received from home. She was not well, but 
although she looked pale, and longed for the sea, she was not ill, 
and resolved she would not give in. 

Then one day, in the midst of her uncongenial toil, she received 
a letter from her sister— a letter which caused her heart to beat 
and her cheeks to burn; a letter that made her wonder how such 
news could be true. It said that Mr. Manley was coming at once 
to England and— more. 


CHAPTER XL1V. 

INVITATION TO RETURN. 

Before Mr. Manley received the bundle of letters from New- 
forth, he had held much conversation with Mr. Yorke as to his 
probable prospects. Both were agreed it was out of the question 
to go on with the mission work. 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


187 


“ 1 knew it wouldn’t do, Phil,” said Yorke; “ the whole thing 
is a mistake, which, ot course, you see now,” 

“But I do not see it,” returned Mr. Manley, promptly. “My 
work was a failure, 1 grant you, because 1 was wrong in continu- 
ing there alone; but with efficient help, time, and patience, 1 see 
reasonable grounds tor hoping that the children might eventually 
be trained into something very different. 1 would try it again my- 
self had not the climate and various things affected my health so 
terribly; and although 1 am quite strong now, 1 scarcely think I 
am justified in running so much risk again— at all events, not just 

"yet.” 

Y'orke gave a slight shrug. 

“ 1 dare say we can manage anything if it is continued long 
enough. After the whole ot your life has been worn out, perhaps 
two or three children will have learned their letters.” 

Mr. Manley laughed. 

“ No, no; 1 won’t allow that. 1 am not at all sure that I shall 
not try again one of these days; 1 don’t like to le beaten.” 

Now, when the letters from England arrived, Mr. Mauley was 
much mov(d; for they contained no less startling news than that 
every one in Newforth was delighted and gratified to hear the true 
story of Mr. Manley’s visits to the Cove, that they were grieved 
and distressed to think how greatly they had wronged him, and, 
with one accord, they begged him to return to them. 

The tacts were thes§: Mr. Rowen was beginning to find the 
parish too much for him. The ladies alone were too much; but 
when joined to them there were the church wardens, and the 
organist and the choir, and the verger, and the mayor (who would 
put in his word now), and the seat-holders— these combined in- 
fluences were diiving the persecuted vicar to the verge of distrac- 
tion. He bore up as long as he could, feebly endeavoring to com- 
bat the ouside public, but succumbing entirely as far as his own 
household was concerned, his cook having long since ruled him 
with a rod of iron, when, all of a sudden, an idea struck him, so 
startling in itself that he remained lost in contemplation of his own 
magnanimity. He would resign the living to Mr. Manley, and 
wish him joy of it! The living was in the gift of the Bishop ot 
W , who, he felt sure, would gladly sanction the exchange. 

This pro red to be the case. The bishop expressed his willing- 
ness to consent, under the circumstances, and added a few gt aceful 
words as to the kindness ot Mr. Rowen in suffering this reparation 
to be made to one who had so long and so unjustly suffered. But 


188 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


had he said all that was in his mind he would have added that on 
his part he would be delighted to see the exchange made, Mr. Man- 
ley being a man alter his own heart, which Mr. Rowen was not. 
However, the bishop was a man of tact; he reserved his opinion. 

It could, however, scarcely have been flattering to Mr. Rowen 
to have observed the unconcealed delight of his congregation on 
hearing that he was going to leave them. 

" Oh, be joyful!" said Mr. Leslie, privately. 

“ Scrumptiously scrumptious," said Miss Hatton. 

For that Mr. Manley would accept the living was received as a 
matter of course by every one; but, had they only known it, Mr. 
Manley had not the smallest intention of accepting the living. 

“ It is quite out of the question," he said to himself. ‘‘ 1 should 
not ?hink of returning to blewforth, although 1 am very glad they 
know the truth, and that I am not quite the villain they took me 
for." For of his sister’s visit he had heard few particulars^ and 
had no idea of the painful revelations that she had made to Mr. 
Leslie. 

The request had been a very public one, as befitted the congrega- 
tion, seeing that the condemnation had been so very public. Mr. 
Rowen had written, the mayor had written, the church- wardens 
had written; but, more than this, there was a huge petition sent 
(at Mr. Leslie’s instigation), signed by the organist and choir and 
every seat-holder in the church, begging him to return; and not 
only signed by them, but by the poor of the parish also. It was 
a huge packet, and contained hundreds of signatures. He was to 
telegraph his reply. 

Mr. Manley w r as greatly touched, as also was Mr. Yorke. 

44 Phil," he said, very gravely, I am more delighted than 1 can 
tell you. There is only one drawback to my joy; that we shall 
lose you." 

44 1 shall go to England, now that my character he said this 
word with some bitterness — 44 is restored to me; but 1 shall certain- 
ly not go to Newforth. 1 do not think it would be at all advisable." 

‘‘Have you a prospect of any other living?” asked Yorke. 

44 IN ot the slightest; and, forasmuch as livings do not grow on 
trees," he added, with a smile, 44 1 must take a curacy, for curacies 
are not hard to get." 

But though he spoke bravely, and with his old determined air, 
he knew that to a man who had been a vicar this would be a very 
bitter pill to swallow. It was not that he felt it derogatory to him. 
Since that night in the bush the strange humility had never left 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


189 


him; he felt that to be a curate was quite sufficient honor; but he 
knew full well that there are vicars and vicars, and to work with 
one who was careless or indifferent 01 interior would be a sharp 
trial to him. He had always been so completely master when he 
was vicar, that he was now fully prepared to serve; he said this to 
himself with all the humility of a proud man. 

“ Take a curacy, Phil?” said Yorke. “ Nonsense! 1 have no 
doubt you were a most excellent curate in your time, but your day 
for that has gone by. That’s the worst of you parsons,” he added, 
with a laugh,* “you must be masters. Why, if you stayed here 
much longer, 1 shouldn't know it was my house; they all come to 
you now instead of me.” 

Mr. Manley laughed heartily. 

“ This is the first time it has ever occurred to me or to any one 
else that you were not master. It is high time I should go, I 
think.” 

“Seriously, though,” said Yorke, “why not take the living? 
You were happy there, and much beloved; it you return, you will 
become a sort ot hero. If you had any better prospect, 1 would 
not urge you; but I can’t bear the idea of your living on a hundred 
a year.” 

“Perhaps I might get a hundred and fifty,” said Mr. Manley, 
laughing. “1 think 1 am worth it.” 

Some argument Ihen ensued, but Mr. Manley was firm. He at 
once prepared his telegram, which was to the effect that, though 
greatly gratified by their kind words and invitation to return to 
them, he thought it best for both parties that he should not do so. 
He would write full parliculars. This he sent, having previously 
shown it to Y~orke; but he was quite unaware that the latter sup- 
plemented it with a private one of his own to Mr. Leslie, which 
said, “ Don’t take 4 No ’ tor an answer. 1 think he will come, if 
you try again.” 

The subject of Mr. Manley's means wa^ troubling Yorke great- 
ly. As for the loan from Mr. Philpot, that had long since been 
repaid, but doing so had left Mr. Manley with next to nothing. 
Yoike had begged him to accept a loan ot two hundred pounds 
some time before, and had seemed so much hurt when he refused, 
that, as usual, he sacrificed his own inclination, and took it. 

“1 am not going to live on you forever,” he said, when the 
subject of his leaving was mooted. 

“Live on me?” said Yorke. “What an extraordinary way 
some people have of putting things, Phil. Now, if 1 had been 


190 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


asked, 1 should have said that a most distinguished and talented 
clergyman had done me the honor of becoming my private chap- 
lain, and was too proud to accept a penny for his services.” 

“1 shall repay you as soon as 1 get to England,” Mr. Manley 
said, with reference to the loan. ” 1 can raise the money very 
well.” He meant, by selling a reversion that was in his possession, 

“ if you repay me before you have a living 1 shall be seriously 
hurt,” said Ycrke. *' What a proud fellow you are, Phil!” who 
himself, on some points, was one of the proudest men that ever 
lived. '* But, when you have a living,” he added, laughing, ** I’ll 
come down on you, and sell up eveiy stick and stone if 1 don’t get 
my money.” 

That night, when Mr. Manley was let alone, he took out all the 
letters he had received, with a deep feeling of thankfulness. He 
had suffered more than any one had been aware of in the imputa- 
tions cast on him; he knew that that evening, when he had stood 
on the platform of the Town Hall to defend himself publicly, had 
been sc exquisitely painful that the memory would never be for- 
gotten by him; but he did not think it befitting his dignity that 
fie should be turned out at one time and fetched back at another. 
A weighty reason with him also was that Ethel Hatton still lived 
in the place. True, he had overcome, he thought, much of his 
bitterness against her, but he would still gladly avoid her. 

He looked again at the letters. There was Mr. Kowen’s, writteu 
in a somewhat condescending spirit— that Mr. Manley could not 
fail to observe — but well meant, on the whole. His jubilation at 
the prospect of escaping from Newfortli could not be contained, 
coincident with a certain amount of self-gratulation as to his own 
goodness in making the offer, which was barely concealed. As 
Mr. Manley very well knew, he said, he had ample means of his 
own without a living at all; but he should apply to the bishop for 
some small living in the country where there were none but farm- 
ers and countrymen, and— this with huge dashes — “ he hoped he 
should get away from the women , and never see a lady again.” 

Mr. Leslie’s letter was very hearty and pressing; the letter of 
a true friend. 

Admiral Hatton’s was short, and written with a certain amount 
of unconscious reluctance. He began thus; 

“ Now, you know, Manley, you needn’t bear malice. 1 was 
wrong, and you were right. Suppose you let by-gones be by gones, 
and come back to us. W r e will all give you a hearty welcome. At 
the same time, 1 do think you might have given us a hint that the 


„THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


191 


];idy was your sister, but, as I said before, let by gones beby-gones. 
and come back.” 

As Mr. Manley put the letter down he gave a sigh, and could 
not but remembei — setting his lips sternly as he did so—that he 
had been ordered out ot Admiral Hatton’s house on the last occasion 
when he had spoken to him, except purely on business. 

The mayor’s letter was well-intentioned and honest, though 
scaicely soothing: 

“ My dear Sir,” it said — *' At one time we all thought you 
were a rascal, and now we know you are not. We hope you will 
come back; we all hope so. I’m not ashamed to own it when I’ve 
been wrong, and Mr. Yorke was quite right when he said it was a 
bad day for Newforth when you was turned out So, hoping this 
will find you in health, as it leaves me at present, 1 am, sir, 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“TnE Mayor of Newforth.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

EUREKA. 

The news that Mr. Manley would not return was received in 
Newforth with dismay. What was to be done? Every one was 
decided on one point, and that was that he must return; that they 
could not do without him. His refusal enhanced his marketable 
value tenfold. Fortunately, they had Mr. Yorke’s telegram to fall 
back on, and a consultation was immediately held as to what was 
to be telegraphed in reply. 

Mr. Leslie felt very disheartened. , He knew Mr. Manley to be 
so thoroughly determined and so decidedly a man of his word, that 
he could not believe that he would alter his mind. He thought 
over the subject most anxiously. One suggested one thing, one 
another. ** Tell him he must ,” said one; “ Beg and entreat him,” 
said another; and a babel of confusion ensued. 

At last Mr. Leslie threw his hat up in the air, and, shouting 
“ Eureka,” gave a jump like a school-boy 

“ What in the world is the matter?” asked his friends. 

” 1 will bet any one in this room a sovereign that my telegram 
will fetch him!” 

“ What is it?” asked every one. 

But Mr. Leslie would not impart his intelligence at once. 


192 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“ You have all been thinking,” he said, " that Mr. Manley was 
like the dog in the child’s poetry: 

“ ‘ The dog will come when he Is called, 

The cat will walk away.’ 

But / knew ‘hat he was neither like the cat nor the dog. This is 
the telegram we will send, putling it to his Christianity: * If you 
do not return *o us, we shall know that we have injured you too 
greatly, and that you have not forgiven us.’ It that doesn’t do it 
nothing will. 1 have baited the hook, and I will land Mr. Manley. 

His proposal was received with acclamation, and the mayor said 
he would pay for the telegram out of his own pocket. 

Miss Hal ton met Mr. Leslie soon after the meeting, and extracted 
from him the fullest particulars. 

“ Oh,” she exclaimed, joyfully; “ it will be like old times to get 
the vicar back again. Of course, it you remember, he always 
preached on Sunday morning, but Ethel and 1 used to go in the 
evening, with the exciting feeling of drawing tickets oul of a lot- 
tery. If Mr. Rowen entered the reading-desk, we knew it was all 
right, that the vicar would preach, and we had drawn a prize; if 
the vicar entered the reading-desk, we knew we had drawn a 
blank.” 

“ It strikes me,” said Mr. Leslie, “ that it’s lucky for you, Miss 
Hatton, that the vicar never heard ycu say that. Wouldn’t you 
have got a rowing, that’s all?” 

“ 1 know 1 should,” she replied, laughing. “ 1 always was afraid 
of him, although I liked him bo immensely. Now, Ethel took lib- 
erties that 1 shouldn’t have ventured on.” 

Did she?” 

“ Yes. Isn’t it a pity their engagement should have been broken 
oft.” 

“ Perhaps it will come on again,” said Mr. Leslie; but Miss Hat- 
ton shook her head. 

” How does Miss Ethel like London?” he asked. 

“ She can't like living where she is, but she won’t come home. 
She has got hold of some notion that it is her duty. One of us 
must go up and see her before long; only 1 am so taken up with 
Harry, and neither my father nor mother has been well lately. 
Well, good-bye, and let me know the moment you hear any news.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


193 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

MR. MANLEY’S DECISION. 

The second telegram greatly astonished Mr. Manley, lie look 
a day to reconsider his determination. The matter had now been 
put in a totally different light. Would it be right now to retain his 
pride? Would it be advisable? He was beginning to think it 
would not. They had put it on the plea of his showing he pos- 
sessed thp love of a Christian pastor toward them; on this ground 
he thought he ought to return. 

• Yorke said not one word; he made up his mind that he would 
not. But at ten o'clock that night, when he was walking up and 
down the lawn, smoking, Mr. Manley joined him. 

“ Yorke,” he said, “ I have decided to return to Newforth.” 

Yorke giasped his hand. “lam very glad to hear it, Phil,” he 
said, warmly, ‘‘lam sure it is wise for you to do so.” 

Mr. Manley decided that he would return without delay, by the 
next mail. 

After the great kindness shown him by Mr. Philpot and Mr. 
Groves at Campertown, he said he should like to see them before 
he started, on which Yorke immediately invited them over. On 
their arrival it transpired that they, too, would shortly visit Eng- 
land. 

‘You must come and stay with me at my vicarage,” said Mr- 
Manley, warmly; ‘‘and although 1 shall never be able to repay 
your kindness to me, still 1 should very much like you to come and 
see me and my church.” 

They replied that they would make a point of doing so, that 
nothing would give them greater pleasure. 

It seemed so wonderful to Mr. Manley to say ” my church,” 

my living ”— he who, but yesterday, had been a wanderer on the 
face of the earth. The old life at JMewforth came back to him, as 
if it were yesterday— this life which he had thought had been put 
away forever. 

“ Do you know,” said Yorke to his wife, “ that 1 don’t wonder 
at a parson being sometimes spoiled by being made too much of. 
Now, look at Manley; when he returns he will receive quite an 
ovation. He will stand it right enough, but few men could.” 

‘‘ If Mr. Manley ever became conceited, or self-conscious,” said 
7 


194 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE NEWEORTH. 


Mrs. Yorke, “ his entire charm would be gone. It is the absence 
of this which gives him so great an influence, which he would lose 
at once if he appreciated himself in the same way that other peo- 
ple do. Eloquent men, and sc on, are plentiful enough; a man 
without a vestige of conceit is quite a rarity.” 

“Upon my word, young woman!’' said her husband, with a 
laugh. 

“ Oh,” she replied, brighlly, “ you may say what you will, but 
men are twice as conceited as women. I’m sure of it.” 

“ 1 know a young lady who used to be always praising me ,” he 
returned, “ and now she is surprised at finding any one is con* 
ceited.” 


CHAPTER XLV11. 

^ / ‘ . ' V; - - ' . , • - - \ \ 'tX 

THE LOST PARCEL. 

Ethel Hatton continued her weary task with unflinching per- 
severance; with greatly renewed hope now that she had heard that 
Mr, Manley was coming back again. Some vague hope that he 
might hear of her, and think she was doing her duty, actuated her. 
Her life was dreadful to her, but custom had blunted the first keen 
feeling of disgust. Her aunt was now well enough to leave her 
room, and sit down-stairs during a portion of the day. She would 
not hear of Ethel leaving her; she said she could not do without 
her. But this was the only praise the girl received. Mrs. Parker 
found fault perpetually, and imposed the hardest tasks on her, 
without ever seeking to place any small means of enjoyment in her 
way. 

Bat to Ethel the hardest sacrifice of all had been to give up most 
of the church-going to which she had been accustomed for 
so long. To hear any one say that it was a proof of goodness to 
go often to church greatly amazed her. To go to church appeared 
to her unmixed enjoyment. Feeling thus, it was a hard trial to stay 
at home herself in order to permit others to attend; but she knew 
that Mr. Manley would have been the last person to advocate a 
selfish religion, and that he would have told her it betokened far 
greater Christianity to stay than to go. Her thoughts were now 
perpetually with him. She lived in dreamland, of ttimes answering 
mechanically when spoken to, and quite oblivious as to the events 
passing around her. Her aunt would often say, sharply, “ Do wake 
tip, Ethel, and attend to your work! ’ And she would give a taint 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OP HEWFORTH. 195 

3mile and proceed with her irksome tasks. Of all these, teaching 
the children was the hardest and most uncongenial; she thought 
she had had enough of children for the remainder of her life. 

And now that Mr. Manley was fairly on his way home, an im- 
mense discussion took place as to what steps should be taken for 
his reception. For a wonder unanimity of feeling prevailed— viz., 
that no honor that could be paid him would be too great; further- 
more, that it would be advisable to give a tangible proof of their 
satisfaction. But in what way could this best be done? Every 
one knew how proud a man Mr. Manley had been in one way, 
albeit so humble in another. The point became one cf some diffi- 
culty. That a banquet — a public banquet— should be given in his 
honor; and that the poor should be feasted, was easy enough, but 
hew to get him to accept a personal present without wounding his 
pride? 

At last an idea occurred to them. The vicarage furniture had 
remained on wi.th Mr. Rowen, but it was now very much the worse 
for wear; might they not refurnish the house, and represent to him 
that the furniture now went with the vicarage? He could not be 
affronted at that. So it was agreed on, and, with no deference 
whatever to the feelings of Mr. Rowen, who was to remain until 
Mr. Manley arrived, painters and paper-L angers were sent in, and 
the house was turned upside down. 

Captain Vincent was posted in the latest news, and one day went 
to Newforth, accompanied by his wife. She at once called on 
Admiral and Mrs. Hatton, and asked if the church- wardens would 
allow them, as a great favor, to undertake the furnishing of the 
vicar’s study, on the understanding that their names were to be 
scrupulously concealed. The church-wardens graciously allowed 
this to be done, and Mrs. Vincent sent for a first-class ecclesiastical 
decorator, with whom she held a long conversation. 

All these details were written to Ethel in London. She thought 
sadly how, if she had not mistrusted Mr. Manley, she would have 
been installed into the vicarage, and how, most probably, if she 
had remained true to him, he would never have left the place at all 
— the mere fact of her faith in him would have spoken volumes. 
Then she thought of his noble life abioad, and how manfully he 
had borne his sufferings; for the story of the hardships he had un- 
dergone in the bush had been fully made known in a letter from 
Mr. Forke to Captain Vincent, by whom the news had been freely 
circulated. 

A living had now been procured for Mr. Rowen — a country iiv- 


196 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


ing, as he wished, where there were not above two bundled inliab- 
itants, including those of the outlying cottages, and where, on his 
visit of inspection, he did not meet with a single person who, by 
any stretch of courtesy, could be called a lady. He had decided 
on leaving Kewforth the day before Mr. Manley arrived, he already 
having been ordered to leave the vicarage while the furnishing was 
taking place, and stay with the Allens, who had invited him. He 
obeyed, though, among all the ladies, it there were one more than 
another whom he particularly detested, it was Mrs. Allen. 

It was as well that he should not remain to welcome Mr. Manley, 
for the joy evinced at the prospect of the latter’s return was alto- 
gether too much for flesh and blood to stand. Even the poor peo- 
ple, who had wheedled money out of him in cases wbereMr. Man- 
ley would have steadily refused one penny, would say to'him, with 
an air of odious satisfaction, “ Oh, sha'n't we be glad, sir, when 
the good gentleman returns, ” and poor Mr. Rowen would retire 
diBgusted. 

One flay be was walking up and down the church-yard, when 
he Saw a stout woman approach bim— a homely-featured, red-faced 
woman. Instinctively he turned to flee, but she cut off his retreat, 
and stood facing him. It was Mrs. Stevens, from Fisherman’s 
Cove, but he did not recognize her, as he now visited the Cove but 
seldom. Her face was flushed and beaming with excitement. 

“ Don’t go away, sir,” she said, hurriedly, as Mr. Rowen would 
have turned away. “ 1 have summat most, important to tell ye.” 

He put his hand in his pocket, prepared to offer her a shilling if 
she would not go away without; tor Mr. Rowen, by dint of being 
constantly worried, had completely lost the forbearance he had 
really displayed in Mr. Manley’s time. 

“What do you want?” he asked. 

“ See here, sir,” she cried, displaying a large packet, most care- 
fully done up in a thick wrapper and sealed in a great many places; 
“ this is what 1 have found.” 

Mr. Rowen took the packet from her, and examined it. It was 
addressed only “ H. C.” He could make nothing of it. 

“ Where did you find it?” he asked, without feeling any in- 
terest in the subject. 

“ You remember, of course, sir,” she began, volubly, “ the lady 
and gentleman 1 had staying with me— for they was a lady and 
gentleman, although they was dressed common— that time when 
Mr. Manley came to see them so often, and all the talk was made, 
not knowin’ tho lady was his sister. Well, sir, to-day, this very 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


197 


mornin’, I looked up, as 1 was a settin’ in the sitting-room, where 
they used to he, and 1 thinks to meself, ‘ Why not have a good turn- 
out?’ So I had a good turn-out, and I took up the carpet. Just 
about in the middle of the floor 1 sees a crack in the boards, so 1 
thinks, thinks 1, * One of them there boards is loose ’ and 1 gives 
it a tread with my fool. You might have knocked me down wilh 
a feather, sir Mr. Rowen looked as if he greatly doubted that— 
“ when, on my foot givin’ way, owin’ to the board goin’ down 
under me, 1 treads on somethin’ soft, and sees a corner of this 
packet and pulls it out. So 1 up and says to myself, * That was 
put there by my lodger.’ He was queer in his head at times, he 
was, and didn’t rightly know what he was a-doin' of, though 1 will 
say that a nicer and more considerate lady never lived than she 
were. So then 1 says, ‘ 1 must take this to our Mr. Rowen to give 
to the vicar ’ ’’—this to poor Mr. Rowen’s face, he, the vicar of 
the parish, but acknowledged as such by no one!— “ he can give it 
to his sister.” 

Mr. Rowen handled the parcel delicately, as if he feared it might 
contain dynamite — indeed, to tell the truth, some such notion had 
crossed his mind. 

He was still looking at it when Mr. Leslie went by. He told 
him the whole story; but before he had time to speak the final 
words Mr. Leslie had jumped on to the nearest flat tombstone, 
taken off his hat, and shouted, ** Hurrah!” at the top of his voice. 

Mr. Rowen thought he was mad; he felt afraid to remain in his 
vicinity. Mrs. Stevens looked as if she shared his apprehensions. 

“ Hurrah!” shouted Mr. Leslie again, this time leaping from the 
tombstone, and seizing the packet from Mr. Rowen’s bewildered 
touch. ** Hurrah, 1 say!” 

Then he turned to Mrs. Stevens, saying, “ Here is a sovereign for 
you, my good woman; and if the packet is what 1 think, you shall 
have ten pounds down.” 

Mrs. Stevens’s doubts as to his sanity were now completely re- 
moved. 

“ Thank ’ee, sir; thank ’ee, kindly,” she said. 

“ And now, my gcod woman, take yourself off as fast as you 
like,” returned Mr. Leslie, ‘‘ I want to talk to Mr. Rowen.” 

Mrs. Stevens departed, nothing loath. 

Then Mr. Leslie said that it was hi opinion that the parcel con- 
tained missing deeds and bonds of incalculable value, and an- 
nounced his intention of going up |o London, without an heur’s 
delay, for the purpose of depositing it in the bank whence the 


198 THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTII. 

bonds had been missed; for even in his excitement Mr. Leslie did 
not say “ stolen ” to Mr. Rowen. 

But the coolness cf this proceeding was a little too much even 
tor Mr. Rowen. “ Excuse me/’ he said; “ the parcel was placed 
in my custody, to give to Mr. Manley, and 1 decline to give 
it up.” 

”1 beg your pardon,” returned Mr. Leslie, who was already 
some steps down the road, 4 4 but possession is nine points of the 
law, you know, and 1 can’t give this up. \ou can have me up 
for felony, if you like,” he shouted, as he departed. 

Mr. Rowen felt extremely angry, which was scarcely to be won- 
dered at. 

44 1 should like to have seen him take it from Manley /’ he ejacu- 
lated, wrathfully. 

44 And indeed so should 1,” put in a voice— that of Miss Hatton, 
who had been an amused and unseen observer of the latter portion 
of the scene; 44 but you are not Mr. Manley, you know, and never 
will be.” 

44 Good -morning /” said Mr. Rowen, and turned into the vicarage. 

It turned out as Mr. Leslie had expected. An enormous amount 
of property had been recovered, and his losses were now almost 
madg gcod. He moved without delay into liis former house, whicli 
was fortunately empty, and lesumed his former prosperity. But 
on Ihe same day the bonds were found he wrote a very kind letter 
to Mrs. Carter, or Reginald, as she must now be called, telling her 
all the circumstances, and adding that he was very glad he had dis- 
missed all rancor from his mind before this event. 

44 The vicar will be glad of this,” he said; for Mr. Manley was 
now 44 the vicar ” with every one. 


CHAPTER XLVII1. 

A FORTUNE. 

Mr. Manley arrived in England after a somewhat uneventful 
passage. On the voyage he had felt a calm, subdued sense of sat- 
isfaction at returning, but no elation. Joy seemed to have turned 
her back on him ferever. He proceeded at once to London, and 
there a surprise awaited him. 

The aunt with whom his sister had lived had lately died, leaving 
him the whole of her fortune, which was considerable. There was 


THE BACHELOE VICAE OF HEWFOETH. 


199 


a clause in the will stating that out ot this money he was to pay his 
sister £300 a year, in quarterly payments, as, had she money of her 
own, she would ceitainly try to make it c?er to her late husband’s 
creditors. To apply any portion of her income for this purpose 
was expressly forbidden in the will, and, should she marry again, 
a certain sum of money was to be placed in trust for her, in lieu 
of the quarterly payments. Mr. Manley’s own portion amounted 
to over £1000 a year. He was very pleased, for he had never pro- 
fessed to undervalue money. He at once thought of the good he 
could do, and how greatly his hands would be strengthened. “ 1 
thank God,” he said. 

Aiteraday or two spent at the Charing Cross Hotel, his sister 
came to see him. She rejoiced over his safe return, and cried in 
his arms. They had so much to tell one another, that it was late 
in the night before they separated. 

He asked it she would come and live with him at Newforth, but 
she replied, “No;” that she considered a clergyman was better* 
without any lady in his house, unless it were his wife. 

“ \ou see, Phil,” she said, “ you would direct your wife what 
to do, and she would do it; ycur tastes and sympathies would run 
in common. But however much a man may like his sister— and 
we love one another very dearly, Phil — it cau not be the same; the 
very similarity cf disposition may cause their tastes to clash. And 
there are other reasons also. Of course, you ought to be master in 
your own house — ” 

“ Of course I ought,” put in Mr. Manley. 

“ And 1, on the other hand, have been accustomed to being mis- 
tress. 1 feel we should be better apart.” 

”1 will not urge you on this point; you shall entirely consult 
your own inclinations,” he said, very kindly; “ but you know per- 
fectly well that 1 shall always give you a hearty welcome when- 
ever you like to come.” 

“ 1 am sure of that, Phil,” she replied, earnestly; and then, in a 
few broken words, she told him how deeply she grieved tor all the 
misery she and her husband had brought him, and how that every 
day of her life she prayed that he might be recompensed in this 
world, and have love and happinsss restored to him. 

“1 am happy,” he replied, gravely. 

“ Ah, Phil, dear!” she said, putting her hand on his face, " it is 
earthly happiness you want now; 1 oray that you may have it. I 
can not bear to think of you living solitary, with no one to see to 
those small comforts which no one but a wife ever thinks of,, and 


200 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWEORTH. 


to pay you those small attentions which would only irritate you 
from any but a wife. 1 want you not only to be gravely happy; 1 
want you to be joyful, as you used to be/’ 

“ lhat 1 shall never be again," he returned; “ 1 can not feel 
joyful any more. Thankful 1 do feel— very thankful, almost op- 
pressed by the sense that my gifts are far greater than my deserts; 
but as to jcy, that has fled forever." 

‘‘But why so, Phil?" asked his sister, in concern; “you are 
but a young man still— strong, athletic, young in your apprecia- 
tion of life, and in many other ways. I can not see why happiness 
should not be in store for you yet. Your cheeks look hollow still, 
dear; you should not nave that patient, thoughtful look in your 
eyes— your eyes which used to glow and sparkle and dance.' Tell 
me, can you and Ethel nevei be reconciled?” 

He shook his head, saying, “ 1 would prefer not to speak of her.’ 
Mrs. Reginald was to remain in London for the present, Mr. 
‘Manley was to go to Newforth the next day. He received a letter 
in the evening from Mr. Leslie, saying he hoped the vicarage 
would be ready; but, if not, they would gladly put him up. The 
fact was that the preparations at the vicarage were so many that 
there was barely time to conclude them all. 

The news of the restoration of the missing bonds had greatly 
cheered Mr. Manley. He began to feel that surely, though slowly, 
things were righting themselves; but when his sister had told him 
of Mr. Leslie's generous kindness, and of his forgiveness of her 
husband, he was greatly touched and began to hope that all his 
labor in Hewforth had not been in vain. 


CHAPTER XL IX. 

HIS ARRIVAL. 

The vicar walked frcm the hotel to Charing Cross station, which 
adjoins, carrying his handbag; his luggage was large in quantity, 
and would follow him. He took a third-class ticket— indeed, he 
generally traveled third-class. Possessing all the latent pride of 
a man who knows that he can not be taken for other than a gentle- 
man, he was supremely careless as to his surroundings in travel, he 
actually preferred third-class, owing to the different company it 
brought him among, he being a profound student of human nature. 
On this occasion he had the carriage to himself. He was glad of 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


201 


this, as he wanted to pursue the train ot his reflections. It seemed 
to him hut yesterday that he had come to Newforth, a stranger, 
unknowing what would await him. He thought of the kindly 
manner in which people had held out a friendly hand to him, of 
the regard they had shown him. And then he thought of her who 
had shown him more than regard, who had assured him of her un- 
changeable affection; but who, in the time ot his troubles, had 
failed him. This wound was very deep still; it did not heal, it 
could eot heal. Again recurred to his mind the verse, never heard 
without his thoughts connecting it with Ethel: “It was not an 
open enemy that hath done me this dishonor: then 1 could hive 
borne it; but it was thou, mine old familiar friend, in whom 1 
trusted.’ 7 His heart was very sore still. He thought ot how he 
should meet her. He had said he would not return to Newforth, 
and one reason, and that a weighty one, had been because she was 
there; but, now that he was returning, how should he treat her? 
Should he ignore her, should he treat her with disdain, or should 
be comport himself toward her in all respects as if she were any 
other young lady? He would do the last; he knew his pride would 
carry him through. That she had loved him he had never doubted 
—probably she loved him still; but oh, what was the worth of such 
love? It had been weighed in the balance, and found wanting. 

Then he thought of the season in which his people had doubted 
him, had believed evil of him, had been on the point of appealing 
to his bishop, had been glad when, notwithstanding all he had 
done for them, they had known he was going. On this point he 
still felt some slight bitterness, in spite of the ample reparation 
they had made. 'Well, he would labor among them as before, seek- 
ing no thanks; he would go about as before. They had probably, 
many of them, forgotten both him and his teaching; but he would 
endeavor not to be discouraged, he would begin all over again. He 
wondered if they had kept up any of the societies he had formed, 
the works he had inaugurated —above all, whether he should find 
that the church had been cared for in his absence; he thought he 
would walk quietly round, and ascertain before going home. But 
was he to go home? He remembered Mr. Leslie’s letter: “ If the 
vicarage is not in order, which we will see about, we will put you 
up.” He certainly would go to the vicarage, if it were possible to do 
so; he wanted to be quiet before beginning his uphill task for the 
second time. 

And then he thought about the journey he had taken on leaving 
Newforth— as he had thought forever— ot his sadness of heart on the 


202 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEW FORTH. 


voyage out to Australia; and then of that time of hardest toil, and to 
all appearance fruitless toil, among the aborigines; most of all, of 
that time when he had lain down under the midnight sky, to die, 
as he believed. Was he a wiser man? he asked himself; if not, he 
was certainly a sadder. No, he could not feel joyful in his home- 
coming. 

He caught sight of the sea. There it was, in the distance, blue 
and sparkling. And then he remembered the morning, soon after 
his first arrival, when, in vigorous healtn and in joyousness of 
heart, he had swum the race round the further buoy with Lieuten- 
ant Campbell, and had beaten him easily. As the train slackened 
its speed he observed that the ships in the harbor weie dressed; he 
supposed it was the wedding-day of one of the captains. What 
was going on? Surely there was a great crowd on the platform; 
eager faces locking into all the first-class carriages in the middle, 
and withdrawing in disappointment. Evidently some one of im- 
portance was expected. 

Mr. Manley thought he would wait until most of the people had 
dispersed. He sat quietly on in his corner, till a voice shouted at 
the door of his carriage, “ Herehe is!” and he found himself takeD 
possession of, and almost dragged out and shaken hands with by 
every one, until he thought he could shake hands no longer. The 
heartiest words of welcome were given him, the most beaming 
smiles. He made his way, still carrying his bag, in course of time 
to the entrance to the station. 

But what was this? Here were the mayor and corporation drawn 
up to receive him —an honor that had never within his memory been 
done to any one save the Prince of \vales, on one occasion, and 
their county member. The mayor advanced and welcomed him in 
the name of the town. The vicar smiled with the'same smile as of 
old, and felt he could not trust himself to say much. And then he 
was told to enter a very handsome carriage, drawn by four horses, 
as he was to be diiven through the town. 

Scarcely had he seated himself when he beheld the brass band — 
the identical band that in the old times had excruciated his ears. No 
sooner had the carriage begun to move than the band commenced 
playing, “ See the conquering hero comes.” This was altogether 
too much for the vicar, who was glad enough to relieve his feelings 
anyhow ; he burst into a hearty laugh, which was taken up by all 
around. He was driven slowly, for crowds lined the streets. On 
every side a welcome met him. He bowed and smiled right and 
left, until a sound arrested his attention: the bells of the parish 


TIIE BACHELOE YICAE OF KEWFOETH. 


203 


church, his dearly loved church, rang out a peal, and then, al- 
though a smile was still on his lips, tears were in his eyes. He told 
them afterwaid he had never been so surprised in his life. 

He was to go to the vicarage, they told him; but what did he 
see on entering the grounds? There, assembled on the lawn, were 
the widows he had visited in theii affliction, some of the sick he 
had ministered unto, the fishermen he had talked with, the children 
he had taught. His pocr people, his own people, were all there. On 
all sides arose voices from them: “ Welcome home, sir;” “ Glad 
to see ’ee, sir,’ : “ God bless your reverence;” “ Welcome, wel- 
comed” in every vatiety of expression. 

Mr. Manley left the carriage, and stood on the top step of his 
house. 

‘‘ My dear friends,” he said, stretching out his hands — ” ray very 
dear friends ” — and then he stopped, for the tears rolled down his 
cheeks. 

Mr. Leslie at once sprung up on the steps beside him, and, wav- 
ing his hat, cried, “ Three cheers for the vicar, and three times 
three!” which were given with acclamation. “You shall maK6 
your speech this evening,” said Mr. Leslie,” at the banquet.” 

And then the vicar — called so by courtesy alone, at present, for 
he was not to be inducted for a week— the vicar asked, what 
banquet, and was told there was to be one in his honor at eight that 
evening, at which a great many people would be present. 

Now concerning this same banquet there had been grand discus- 
sions. Every one of any importance in the town was to be present ; 
but, further, there were to be people from out of the town. Cap- 
tain Vincent had signified his intention of beihg present, and Mr. 
Fortescue, on hearing the news, said he would come down from 
London on purpose— that he liked Mr. Manley; but that, in addi- 
tion, it would be just as good as any play to see the mayor and the 
provincials. 

But this did not satisfy Mrs. Vincent. She insisted that Lord 
Hilton ought to be invited; that she was sure the mayor and the 
townspeople would be only too glad to do so. 

Captain Vincent laughed. 

“That, my chid, is likely enough; but Lord Hilton won’t be 
anxious to come. Mr. Manley, no doubt, is a very good parson, 
but it’s almost too much to expect Lord Hilton to welcome him.” 

‘ ‘ 1 will bet you a new dress, Rupert, that he will come, if he is 
asked. We will diive over there now, and tell him about it.” 

” I like that,” returned Captain Vincent. “ What earthly good 


204 ' 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


ie a new dress to me? Well, 1 suppose we must go over. Upon 
my word, 1 am henpecked!” 

Bui, to Captain Vincent’s astonishment, Lord Hilton declared he 
would be delighted to go. 

“ I’m not such an old man yet, Vincent,” he said, ‘‘ that 1 can’t 
eat a good dinner; and 1 do like to see a wrong righted. I have 
heard about Mr. Manley from the bishop.” 

Now the vicar would greatly have preferred to have spent the 
evening alone, tut he knew this was out of the question. And 
then he was told that tne poor people on the lawn were to have a 
feast out of doors — it being now August — in Mr. Leslie’s field, 
that evening at six, and that the vicar, of course, must be present 
ror a short time. 

He heard a dog tark, and his old and faithful favorite came rush- 
ing forward and jumped on him, frantic with delight. The dog 
had been given to Mr. Leslie, wbo now restored him to his former 
master. 

“ 1 thank you, Leslie,” said the vicar; “lam very glad to have 
him again.” 

At present he had not been able even to turn round, but had 
stood with his back to the front door. At the front door stood 
Mrs. Jonson, her face beaming with smiles. The vicar shook 
hands with her heartily, and said he was very glad indeed to see 
her. 

Who could have believed, he thought, that, after an absence of 
nearly a year, so many things would be unchanged ? A year ! Per- 
haps to the people in New forth it might seem a short time since he 
had left ; but to him, who had undergone so much in the interim, 
it seemed as if ages had rolled over his head. 

And now Mr. Leslie approached him y with some slight hesita- 
tion, and told him that the house had been newly done up, and a 
little of the furniture altered, and that it was now to go with the 
vicarage. 

And, indeed, the house had been transformed. In place of worn 
carpets and dingy papers there were large squares of Axminster 
carpet, and handsomely decorated walls; while everything, though 
perfectly plain, was most thoroughly good. 

But when Mr. Manley entered his study, it astonished him. The 
ecclesiastical decorator and Mrs. Vincent, between them, had man- 
aged to satisfy his critical taste most completely. He was delighted 
with it. The walls were beautiful, and on them hung a few very 
choice prints. There was only one ornament in the room, a hand- 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEWFORTH. 


205 


some clock mounted in bronze; but the whole impression given 
was of the greatest comfort, combined with a certain severely cler- 
ical air, which was just what Mr. Manley wished. He expressed 
himself as much pleased. 

“But,” he said, “although 1 will not be so ungracious as to 
hint that so very handsome a present to the vicarage and to me is 
unnecessary, still, I can not but tell you that since 1 have arrived 
in England 1 have been left a good deal of money; therefore I 
think I ought to pay some proportion of the heavy expenses you 
have all incurred.” 

However, Mr. Leslie declared this would affront every one, and 
the vicar sacrificed his own inclination. 

“ As to your money,” said Mr. Leslie, “ 1 know how it would 
have been if we had not furnished your house. You would have 
gone into all the back slums, and provided every one with com- 
forts, and furnished his or her house for him or her, and then you 
would have said, * As all the money is spent, 1 will make the old 
furniture do until next year;’ and next year it would have been 
just the same.” 

“ You are mistaken.” said the vicar, not caring to argue the 
point further. 

It was now time for him to preside at the tea for the poor peo- 
ple, which he did, and spoke a few kind words to each one pres- 
ent. 

And then, as it was nearly eight, he prepared to go to the ban- 
quet, and would have walked thither had not a carriage come for 
him, and with a request that he would drive. It was noi sent solely 
to do him honor, but to insure his not arriving until every one was 
there to receive him. But the vicar had far too much sense of fit- 
ness to have intended arriving until eight o’clock. The room was 
quite full when he entered, with that easy grace which always 
characterized him, and looking as serene as if he had never left 
them. A well-bred man never shows to better advantage than in 
facing a similar ordeal, a half-bred man never to worse. Lord 
Hilton came forward at once, saying: “ We are all delighted to 
see you, Mr. Manley.” 

Captain Vincent next shook hands, and said, “ 1 have the very 
greatest pleasure in welcoming you on your return.” 

Then came the mayor, putting out a broad, fat, and slightly 
moist hand, which he closed round the cool, w hite hand cf the vicar, 
saying, “ Glad to see you again, sir— I tell you for the second 
time; and we are all sorry we were a bit ’asty before you left.” 


206 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE HEWEOKTH. 


Mr. Manley smiled, and bowed slightly, thinking it best to ig- 
nore the unwelcome allusion altcgether. 

But Admiral Hatton stood somewhat aloof, looking very un- 
comfortable. To him the vicar advanced, saying, in his kindest 
voice, “ I trust, sir, that you, too, will shake hands with me.” 

“ To be sure,” returned the admiral, greatly relieved and grati- 
fled. “ You are a thorough good fellow, Manley, and 1 hope we 
shall be as good friends as ever.” 

Then Mr. Fortescue advanced, and in a very few but well-cho- 
sen words expressed his satisfaction at seeing him. 

After him came every one, till the vicar, though still preserving 
his kind expression, began to devoutly wish that he might wash his 
hands, or, at all events, his right hand. 

The serious business of the banquet then began; and as he found 
himself the honored guest, and listened to the speeches made in 
his favor, he could not but thins of that night when, in that self- 
same room, he had stood on the platform and faced his enemies. 
Where were his enemies now? Then, as he looked at the table 
appointments— the brilliant silver, the glass, the flowers, the china, 
all of the best— he could not but recall the vision of that solitary 
man living in the bush, and think of what his table appointments 
had been, how disgusting his food. 

The brass band had performed during dinner, bringing more 
than one smile to the vicar’s countenance, and causing Mr. Fortes- 
cue, who was enjoying the whole thing immensely, to remark that 
he had not had such a musical treat for many a, long day. 

In acknowledging the honor done him, Mr. Manley said but a 
very few words. It was not that his former ready speech had 
forsaken him— it was that he felt, for every one's sake, that the 
less said the better; and, in addition, he was greatly moved at all 
the kindness showered on him. 

” I’m atraid his head will be turned after this. 1 never saw such 
a unanimous ovation given to any clergyman in mylife,” said one 
gentleman; ‘ it will be a great pity if he becomes spoiled in conse- 
quence.” 

But in all Newforth, in all the County, there was not a man who 
felt so humble in the depths of his heart as did the vicar. To be 
overrated has anything out an exhilarating effect on some minds; 
he imagined that he was overrated. 

‘‘If they could only know me as I am,” he thought, sadly, 
“ as l was ’’—and his mind reverted to that terrible night in the 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 207 

bush — “ and to think that such an one as 1 is considered worthy of 
so much praise and honor!” 

At eleven o’clock, the banquet broke up. Now, at last, he was 
free to follow the wish of his heart, and see his church. He walked 
up and down the vicarage garden for a few moments in order to 
collect his thoughts. lie watched the sea, bathed in calm, sweet 
moonlight, the distant shipping, looking dark, against the light; 
and he said to himself, ‘‘ Why should any one require to think of 
more than this: ‘In the beginning God created the heaven and the 
earth. And God made two great lights; the greater light to rule 
the day, and the lesser light to rule the night ; He made the stars 
also.' ” 

He looked at the steeple— the now finished and handsome steeple 
— which he could see plainly in the glorious harvest moonlight. 
His heart swelled within him as he noted how beautiful the church 
now looked — his church. And then he resolved that he would ever 
after give largely toward missions, and try to help, by every means 
in bis power, those men who gave, not one year, but their lives, to 
such arduous, disheartening toil. 

He walked through the churchyard, and in passing by . the 
graves observed that cross which Ethel had pointed out, bearing the 
inscription, ”1 am the Way, the Truth, and the Life;” but of 
Ethel he would not think now. The clock chimed half-past 
eleven when he entered the church; and then his heart became too 
full for utterance, as he walked up the aisle (for he had entered at 
the west door), when he saw the well remembered pulpit, the beau- 
tiful chancel, the glorious window. He went to the altar-rails and 
knelt down, leaning his head on his hands, and there he remained 
until he heard the chimes, and the clock struck twelve. Then he 
rose and went home, his heart full of thankfulness and peace— the 
peace of God. 


CHAPTER L. 

ETHEL’S RETURN. 

The Hatton family were all agreed now that Ethel should come 
home. In the first place, on her own account; in the second, on 
theirs; in the third, in case, by any accident, matters might be set 
right between her and the vicar, though on this point none of the 
family had much hope, lie had been very friendly with them, 
and had asked, in an apparently unconcerned manner, how Miss 
Ethel was. 


208 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEW FORTH. 


How, Ethel had implored her sister to give her the fullest news 
ot the vicar on his return, and she was specially to mention whether 
he said anything about her. This cool mention ot her, which Miss 
Iiatton thought it advisable to repeat, in order that inadmissible 
hope might not revive in her sister’s heart, was to Ethel absolutely 
crushing. Her love now seemed to overwhelm her; she felt that 
she should like to throw herself at his feet, and beg him to forgive 
her, and love her again; but this she knew she could not do. But 
see him again she must and would, and was about 1o write and 
say she would like to return home, when, quite unexpectedly, her 
father arrived on the scene. 

She was in the underground dining-room, cutting bread-and- 
butter for the children’s tea; for they required as much waiting 
on as ever, and were far more exacting in their demands since they 
found she had not sufficient spirit to resist them. The room was 
comfortless, as usual; the furniture more worn; the carpet in a 
still further advanced state of decay, it being almost impossible to 
tread without being tripped up by a hole. The tableclcth was 
smeared with treacle, while the food and crockery-ware were much 
about the same as when she first arrived. 

She stood with her back to the window. Admiral Hatton, from 
the pavement, looked in. He noted the appearance of the room, 
and, catching sight of Ethel’s profile, saw how pale and thin she 
had grown. He saw the youngest child put her hand into the plate 
of bread-and-butter, and seize four pieces together. Ethel took 
three of them away, when the child put up her hand and gave her 
a slap on the face. 

The admiral waited to see no more; he knocked at the door with 
a thundering noise, and, pushing past the servant, went into th6 
apology lor a drawing-room, where Mrs. Parker was sitting, in a 
towering rage. Without any preface he burst out,“ And what do 
you mean by treating my daughter in this way?” 

Then, going to the top of the kitchen-stairs, he roared out, 
“ Come up, Ethel, my girl; I’m here to see you.” 

She turned very white, and ran upstairs into his arms, and 
burst out crying. Her tears increased her father’s rage against his 
sister. As soon as he had kissed his daughter, he turned round 
again to Mrs. Parker, who was looking frightened and bewildered. 

“ Wliat's the meaning of my coming here, and finding my d a,J «h- 
ter treated like this?” he asked. 

“ Like what?” said Mrs. Parker, feebly, ‘‘lam sure Ethel has 
had a very comfortable home here.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAE OF HEW FORTH. 209 

“ What?” thundered the admiral; “a comfortable home? The 
daughter of a British admiral lo be made a slave of and struck by 
the wretched children of a mean, miserable, pettifogging trades- 
man!” 

“ I'm sure 1 wish the children to behave properly,” said Mrs. 
Parker, deprecatingly; “ and you knew she came here to be use- 
ful.” 

” Perhaps to be useful to you” retorted the admiral, “ but not 
to be useful to your dirty, disgusting little wretches of children.” 

‘‘Don’t say quite so much,” whispered Ethel, whc was en- 
deavoring to check her tears; ‘‘you will make aunt ill.” 

” I can’t help that,” he replied. ‘‘Go upstairs at once, and 
pack up, Ethel; tor I’ll not leave this house until 1 take you with 
me.” 

“ Go home now!” said Ethel, beginning to cry again, for during 
the last few months she had been considerably overwrought. 

“ Dry your eyes, my girl, and go upstairs to pack up at once,” 
he repeated, 

“ Are you going to take Ethel away?” asked Mrs. Parker, now 
seriously concerned. ‘‘1 don’t know how 1 can get on without 
her.” 

‘‘You should have treated her better,” he replied; ‘‘and as 1 
don’t feel at all anxious to remain in your company, 1 will go up- 
stairs and see her pack.” 

He called the servant and asked her to show him the way up, 
quite ignoring his nephew and nieces, who were clustered on the 
stairs, quarrelling at intervals. But when the bedroom was reached 
his wrath knew no bounds. 

“You to have slept in such a hole of a place as this!” he ex- 
claimed, and without paying the slightest heed to the presence of 
the servant, commenced to abuse his sister without mercy. 

Ethel in vain endeavored to check him. 

“ You know, father,” she said, gently, “ how very poor aunt is; 
she couldn’t help the furniture being so wretched.” 

But now the servant-maid joined in. Many had been the small 
kindnesses Ethel had shown, many the small presents she had 
made her, and had at last quite won her heart by her gentle words. 

“ I’m sure, sir,” she exclaimed, “ it’s just about time Miss Ethel 
should go, though I don’t know what we shall do without her. She 
has been that put upon by missus that, if you could only a known 
it, it would make your blood bile.” (Ethel sincerely hoped her 
father’s temperature would be raised no higher). And then Jane 


210 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


catered into a very tull and complete catalogue of Ethel’s woes — 
the latter in vain trying to silence her — enlarging on everything, 
until the admiral looked as if he were going to have a fit of apo- 
plexy. 

“ I have even seen her, by missus’s orders, try to brush up the 
settin’-ioom, sir, though I must say she did it uncommon bad, and 
all Miss Ethel says to her aggravations and orders was, 4 Yes,’ as 
mild as milk.” 

44 Jane,” said Ethel, gravely, “ I request you to be silent.” 

44 Well, 1 will, miss,” answered Jane, who had now said about as 
much as it was possible to condense into ten minutes in the way 
of grievances; 44 and 1 won’t stay in this blessed place, now you 
are going.” 

44 Here’s a sovereign for you, my girl,” said the admiral; “ and 
now cord and strap Miss Ethel’s trunks, and then fetch a cab, and 
we’ll be out of this before ten minutes are over.” 

When the cab arrived he would not see his sister, but walked 
straight out of the house. Ethel, however, went in and kissed her 
and the children, and said a few kind words. 

44 Ah,” said'Jane, as the? departed, ‘‘now you’ll find out the 
value of Miss Ethel, ma’am; it’s a pity you couldn't ’ave found it 
out afore. ” 

But Mrs. Parker was too much subdued just now to reply. 

In going to Victoria Station the admiral observed with what in- 
terest Ethel looked at all the great public buildings. 

44 Why,” he said, good humoredly, 44 any one would think you 
hadn’t seen them since you were in London.” 

44 Neither have 1, father,” returned Ethel, quietly. 44 You know 
1 went to nurse my aunt, not to enjoy myself.” 

44 Your aunt be—” he was on the point of adding 44 hanged,” but 
checked himself, as he remembered, after all, how helpless his sis- 
ter was. He thought that after Gertrude was married in Novem- 
ber, he could afford to give Mrs. 'Parker some small sum a year. 

44 Did you never go anywhere?” he asked. 

44 1 went to church— when 1 could.” 

” Oh, ho! so even that was too great a luxury to be allowed you; 
it’s outrageous — it’s disgraceful.” 

As the train neared Newtorth, Ethel's heart beat fast. She 
caught sight of the spire, and of the vicarage behind the church, 
and for the millionth time, wondered at her own folly in having 
lost faith in the vicar. She wondered whether she should ever meet 
him except in church; and, if so, what he would say to her. But 


TSE BACHELOR YICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


211 


as the cab that brought them from the station drew up at their 
door she caught sight of his well-known form coming down the 
road. She opened the door of the cab herself, and flew into the 
house, shutting the dining-room door behind her, as if she feared 
she were pursued. 

Mrs. and Miss Hatton received her with astonishment and de- 
light. 

“ But what is the matter, Ethel!’' asked Miss Hatton. “ Yen 
look like a ghost.” 

Meantime Admiral Hatton had also caught sight of Mr. Manley, 
and, entirely forgetting that he had ever been engaged to Ethel, 
he poured out to him the entire catalogue of her wrongs, delighted 
to find a silent listener. 

The vicar’s face became graver and graver as the admiral pro- 
ceeded, the delicacy of feeling natural to him telling him that he 
ought to have been the last person to hear this story. 

44 1 trust Miss Ethel’s health has not suffered,” he said, very cour- 
teously, but very gravely, and in the same tone that he would have 
employed if speaking of Mrs. Allen. 

And then it suddenly dawned on the admiral that this man was 
at one time to have been Ethel’s husband, and he bade him ** good- 
bye ” somewhat confusedly. . 

“ I have been telling Manley all about your treatment, Ethel,” 
he said, as he joined the others in the dining-room. 

44 1 think you might have spared me that,” said Ethel, turning 
crimson, and going out of the room. 

‘‘The child is ill; that’s what’s the matter,” said the admiral. 
*' Now, what on earth was there to take offense at in what 1 said?” 
and then he recommenced the tale of Ethel’s wrongs and hardships, 
to Mrs. Hatton’s unbounded indignation. 

The vicar walked on, lost in thought. It was one thing to say 
in the bush that he seldom thought of her, but quite another to 
say so in Newforth, where everything constantly reminded him of 
her, and of their former love. Even his window brought her to 
his recollection, not with the love of dd, but with a feeling which 
he tried hard should not be bitterness. 

Such a man as he never yet loved lightly, never forgot lightly. 
So now this account of the life she had been leading moved him 
more than he cared to show-, but as he had resolved in the train, 
so he now determined, that he would act toward her in every re- 
spect as if she were any other young lady. And yet he was anxious 
to see her once again, although he was scarcely, conscious of the 


212 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFORTH. 


wish. He found himself looking out of the vicarage windows, 
and wondeiing whether she would go by; but, during the first few 
days of her home coming Ethel did not go beyond the garden. She 
longed to see him, and yet dieaded to do so. 

Now, concerning these same windows there was a great talk 
made among the young ladies, as they overlooked the main road. 
Mrs. Leslie usually went to church alone in the afternoon, but on 
returning was often joined by some friend who had also been to the 
service. 

On one occasion Miss Aden, Miss Hatton, and Captain Worsley 
met her coming from the church door. 

“You are going down the wrong way,” she said to Miss Allen; 
“this is our nearest road home.” 

“Oh,” returned Miss Allen, “ X don’t like going that way; it 
takes you past the vicarage windows.” 

“ If 1 wanted to go past the vicarage windows one hundred and 
fifty times, it being my most direct road, I should go,” said Mrs. 
Leslie. “ First of all, 1 haven’t the slightest idea whether the 
vicar usually sits in the back or the front of the house, as he has a 
sitting-room in both; and if 1 did know 1 should not care; sec- 
ondly , if 1 did go, I should be quite sure that he had a great many 
more things to do than to look at me; and, thirdly , if it pleased 
him to look at the passers-by, why shouldn’t he do so?” 

“ Hear, hear,” said Captain Worsley; “quite a sermon, Mrs. 
Leslie. ” 

“ It’s very well for you,” said Miss Allen; “you are married, 
so people can’t say anything; but after all the disgusting para- 
graphs about young ladies, in the papers, it makes us uncomfort- 
able.” 

“ I dare say it does,” returned Mrs. Leslie, laughing. “ 1 really 
do feel for all you girls, but. if you want to get your minds really 
from dwelling so much on him as they evidently do, work him up 
into a novel, and make three volumes oi him. You will then look 
on him— except, of course, in church— as a mere abstraction, a 
species of anatomical study.” 

Captain VN orsley laughed heartily. 

“ Or 1 will tell you what will he better still, Miss Allen,” he 
said. “Go down to a naval and military town, such as Ports- 
mouth, and you will find there are such hosts of men that one 
vicar, more or less, won’t be of the slightest consequence.” 

“ 1 beg you pardon, Harry,” said Miss Hatton; “ when I was in 
Portmsouth there was a vicar in Southsea who was of the most 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


213 


tremendous importance to every one, and was most heartily liked. 
Why, you know perfectly well thal you were there at the time, be- 
fore you went out to Africa, and were as jealous of him as you 
could possibly be, although 1 only spoke to him once in my life, 
just because 1 praised him. You used to say that you couldn’t 
bear the sound of his name.” 

“ 1 wasn’t engaged then; you used to snub me so awfully, you 
know; 1 am now, so 1 don’t care.” 

M And is that vicar there still?” asked Mrs. Leslie. 

“ Yes,” replied Captain Worsley, looking highly amused; “ but 
he is— married, alas!” 

“ There is Mr. Manley now,” said Mrs. Leslie, ** let us stop and 
speak to him.” 

Somewhat to her chagrin Miss Hatton repeated the speech about 
the abstraction he would become. But he did not appear at all 
offended; he laughed and said he much preferred tc be looked 
upon in the light of an abstraction than to be the subject of too 
much regard. 

Miss Allen suddenly shook hands and went away. 

“ 1 wish you would not give those neat little hits, Mr. Manley,” 
said Miss Hatton; ‘‘because, although they are very telling, they 
are done so amiably, which makes them harder to bear.” 

” What hit?” he asked, with a smile. *‘ 1 merely said 1 did not 
wish to be the subject of too much regard, and 1 don't wish it, 
neither I suppose does any one else. I made a general statement— 
that was all.” 

" Miss Allen took it personally.” 

Now, Miss Allen was hugely tall, red-haired, and freckled, and 
withal, very cross-looking. Although usually reticent, she occas- 
ionally came out with very snappish remarks, and was altogether 
no favorite with the vicar. 

‘‘I am sorry for Miss Allen, if so,” he replied. '* I intended 
nothing personal to her. I looked on all this conversation as the 
reverse of serious.” 

“ I am so glad you can see a joke,” said Miss Hatton, “ which 
is more than Mr. Rowen could do.” 

“ Poor Mr. Rowen!” said the vicar, leaving them. 

He turned down a side road, and there, coming toward him, 
within a few feet, was— Ethel. 

At the sight of her pale, but now very beautiful face, he felt a 
great rush of feeling come over him, and he knew that it would be 


214 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


impossible for him to stop and speak, a friendly and indifferent 
greeting, as he had intended. 

So he passed on, looking Her iuli In the face very gravely, and 
bowing so low that she saw the whole of the lining of his hat. 

So this was the greeting she received from the man she loved 
better than all the world. The tears came into her eyes; she felt 
utterly heart-broken. If he had cut her, if he had nodded to her, 
if he had given her one smile such as he was wont to bestow on 
the poorest of his parishioners, it would have been, oh, so # much 
better, than this courteous, stately greeting. 'VVhat could she do? 
She would not force herself upon him, and speak to him against 
his will; she could not send him any message; she could not write 
to him; there was nothing in her powei. From the man who had 
held her in his arms as if he could not bear to let her go, she had 
received— a distant bow. 

But she had no idea of the conflicting emotions in ids mind. He 
loved her still, he fully acknowledged this now; but with a very 
different love to the trusting, perfect love of the old time. He 
loved her and — well, not despised her; that word would ill express 
the feeling in his mind— but while he loved her, he pitied her as 
one in whose affection there was no trust. As fcr making her his 
wife now, such an idea did not even occur to him. Marry a girl 
who had forsaken him during his worst trouble? Oh, no! 

CHAPTER LX. 

VAIN REGRET. 

The parish machinery was in full force, the vicai’s firm hand 
■was felt in e\ery department. In vain did some of the ladies try 
to make themselves too prominent; in vain did the organist try to 
retain his privileges with regard to the hymns, and the choir to the 
music and chants; in vain did the verger, who had a little forgotten 
his respect, foi a brief moment, try to give his opinion. W ith a smile, 
and a few determined woids, which, withial, seemed to annoy no 
one. the vicar showed them all that he was master, and intended 
to be master. Every one was ten times better pleased. In place of 
twenty chiefs, there was now but one. 

A new curate was appointed, a Mr. Chasemore; and as he was 
not only a very good man, but a married man, there was no diffi- 
culty with him and the ladies. But Mi. Manley did not give him 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


21 5 


a hundred a year; he gave him two hundred and fifty pounds,, a 
year, and many a fee that by rights belonged to the vicar found its 
way into the curate’s hands, vn the plea of his extra trouble. 
They worked together most harmoniously; for Mr. Chasemore had 
the most thorough belief in, and admiration fcr, his vicar. 

Mr. Manley had paid a short visit to Teraplemorc, and thanked 
Mrs. Vincent most heartily for the peal of bells, and had a gcod 
laugh over their names, which he allowed were somewhat peculiar. 

“And what shall you call the others, Mr. Manley?” asked 
Mrs. Vincent. 

“ Really 1 have not thought of it,” he replied. “ Perhaps some 
Australian names.” 

“ Oh, please don’t do that,” she rejoined, promptly; “ because, 
as my husband’s and my names are there with yours, we should 
not like to be mixed up with outlandish-sounding Australian 
places.” 

Had she given her real reason it would have been her hope that 
Mr. Manley would one day marry, and call the remaining bells by 
his wife’s names. 

“You have the best right to name them,” he said; “ why do 
you not do so?” 

“ Shall we agree that you are to do so before the year is over?” 

“ As you please,” he replied, thinking that it was quite im- 
material to him by what names they were called. 

And here it may be remarked, in parenthesis, that before the 
year was over he had named them, and that the names that they 
bore were then by no means immaterial to him. 

About this lime he received letters from Mr. Philpot and Mr. 
Groves, telling him they were in London. He at once wrote and 
gave them a cordial invitation, which they gladly accepted, coming 
down without delay. The vicar made no change in his usual mode 
of life for their presence, he went about his work the same as 
usual. Sometimes of an evening he would ask them to sit with 
him in his study-— an hour he seldom had been known to accord to 
any, save people who came on business. 

Now this same study was his delight. The church decorator 
and Mrs. Vincent between them had succeeded marvelously in 
pleasing him. Although, from conscientious scruples, he would 
not have spent money cn giving himself a?sthetic pleasure, still, 
now that it was provided for him, he greatly enjoyed it, and 
would have looked on himself as very ungracious had he professed 
to undervalue the attraction his pretty house now had for him. 


216 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


“You only want a wife to make the place perfect,” said Mr. 
Groves, who had been waim in his expressions of pleasure at every- 
thing he had seen. 

“ 1 think,” replied Mr. Manley, “ that l do not want a wife,” 
and a momentary expression of gravity came' over his countenance. 

Ethel he had not met once since their first encounter. She scru- 
pulously avoided him. She now sat in a seat at the extreme end 
of the church, accompanied by her sister and Captain Worsley, 
who always came over from Saturday to Monday. She thought 
the vicar could not possibly see her; she sat as far back as she 
could, and often covered her face with her hand. Her grief seemed 
too heavy for her when she saw his grave, earnest face full of so 
much light and feeling. As often as not the tears would stand in 
her eyes during the entire service, sometimes run down her cheeks. 

“You must wear a veil in church, Ethel,” said her sister; “ it 
looks so, to see you so often crying.” 

But to Ethel just then looks were nothing; there was only to her 
one person in church, and that was — the vicar. As for parish 
work, she made no attempt at that; she knew that she could not 
face him. 

But one day, after showing Mr. Groves and Mr. Philpot the w T ay 
to Fisherman’s Cove, Mr. Manky was slowly returning by the 
beach, and, on walking round one of the small indented bays, he 
came face to face with— Ethel. She was standing on the sand, 
her mind evidently far away from the visible scene, although the 
tide was tumbling and splashing almost at her feet. But this time 
he did not bow and pass on. With a grave face he held out his 
hand, saying, “ How do you do— Miss Ethel?” 

The slight pause spoke volumes. “ Miss Ethel!” Had it come 
to that? A vivid flood of crimson overspread her face, which 
departed, leaving her deadly pale; but she could find no words in 
which to reply. He appeared not to perceive her agitation; he 
spoke a few words cf inquiry after her father and mother, and, 
coldly averting his eyes, he then wished her good-bye, holding her 
hand as if he certainly did not mean it. 

That her case was hopeless she now fully realized, and after this 
she met him often; but allhough he fully intended to be courteous 
and friendly to her, as he was to all the other young ladies, he did 
not carry out his wishes. He could be, and was, polite — oh, so 
polite; but he was always cold, always dignified, always unap- 
proachable. As she looked at him she would think it almost an 
impossibility that she should ever have put her arms round his 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 217 

neck, have kissed him, have called him “Phil.” This man ap- 
peared liise some grand, but quite un-come-atable being, lie 
would gladly have avoided these meetings, but it was not possible 
that he should, and, knowing this, he had begun to look upon 
them as a necessary but painful duty. 


CHAPTER Lll. 

A SUBSTITUTE. 

Mrs. Leslie and Miss Hatton were on their way from the usual 
fortnightly working-paity, which, on this occasion had been held 
at Mrs. Chasemore’s, when they met young Mr. Allen. 

Now, these working-pai ties were productive of real good, inas> 
much as, by the sale of their work, the ladies realized a considera- 
ble sum in the course of the yeai ; but it can not be said that they 
were amusing, although it must be added that not one of the ladies 
went ior the sake of amusement. The vicar was not quite certain 
whether the ladies of Newforth had minds or not, judging by the 
natuie of the conversation with wnicb they, one and all, without 
exception favored him ; si ill, he was willing to give them the bene- 
fit of the doubt, and, in case il should be decided in their favor, 
he thought he would try and improve such intellect as they might 
possess. He accordingly signified his wish that the books chosen 
for reading at the working-party should be of a grave nature — his- 
torical works, or pamphlets on the questions of the day. It is quite 
possible that, had he been present, and read them himself, a fair 
amount of interest might have been excited in them; but, as it 
was, these books, often read far from impressively, were productive 
of a most depressing influence on the minds of the poor ladies. 

On this afternoon the work selected had been a little sort of blue- 
book affair, in favor of the Channel Tunnel. 

Now, Mrs. Leslie detested the idea of the Channel Tunnel, and 
had she not done so before, the prolonged reading would certainly 
have made her. She put down her work every five minutes, and 
yawned surreptitiously. Before the book was ended she abhorred 
the Channel Tunnel. 

The reading begun slowly, and gradually increased in pace as 
the welcome clatter of the cups was beard outside, for tea and cake 
were always served before the working-party broke up, and when 
the book was put down a perceptible sigh of relief went through 
the room. 


218 THE BACHELOR YICAR OF 'HEW FORTH. 

“ x wonder how Mr, Manley would like to be made to listen to 
what he had previously read at home,” said Miss Allen; “ 1 have 
read every word of that before.” 

“ It does not the least matter if you have,” returned Miss Hat- 
ton; ‘‘if the vicar says ‘Channel Tunnel/ ‘Channel Tunnel’ it 
will be, and we might as well make the best cf it. 1 allow 1 would 
much rather hear something of Thackeray’s.” 

“ You have lost your authority since Mr. Rowen went aw r ay,” 
said Miss Allen. “ No taking command of district meetings for 
you now.” 

“ 1 am very glad to lose it,” said Miss Hatton, *‘ and 1 vastly 
prefer that the vicar should be the head, as, of course, he always 
ought to be,” 

It was after this meeting that Mr. Alien joined them. 

‘‘Do 3 r ou know,” he said, ‘‘that there is going to be a meet- 
ing of the Young Men’s Christian Association in three days’ 
time? Are you going?” 

‘‘ Certainly not,” returned Miss Hatton. “ 1 went on one oc- 
casion, and I have never forgotten it. Nothing would make me 
go to another.” 

“ I am sure that you will go to this one,” he returned, ‘‘ and 
probably will bring Captain Worsley.” 

“Why?” 

” Because the vicar is going to give the address himself, and 
detail his own experience in the bush.” 

‘‘That quite alters the case,” said Miss Hatton. ‘‘Of course 
we will go.” 

“ We will all go,” said Mrs. Leslie. 

The appointed evening came; it was the day before that arranged 
for the departure of Mr. Groves and Mr. Phil pot, which Mr. Man- 
ley had fully taken into consideration. In place of empty benches 
the room was crowded in every part; there was scarcely standing- 
room. 

The vicar began his address with a smile, which gradually left 
his face as he described the sad and degraded condition of the 
heathen black tribe among whom his lot had been cast. His ex- 
pression became very sad as he, in graphic, stirring words, de- 
scribed how little he had been able to do for them, how little to 
acomplish, but how sure he felt that more might be done with time 
and patience. He told them of the 3oiftf food he had eaten, and 
the manner in which it had been prepared, neither softening nor 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 219 

exaggerating any detail; of Ihe toil he had endured, and how hard 
h6 had felt it to continue his labor underneath the burning sun. 

Interesting in the extreme as the lecture was, a slight feeling of 
astonishment began to pervade the audience. Never within their 
memory had the vicar been known to so much as allude to any 
sacrifice he had made, no matter of what nature. What was the 
meaning of this? And now, on continuing his narration, he told 
them of how the blacks had burned his hut, of his journey through 
the thirty miles of bush land, of his illness, and of how nearly he 
had died. 

Then he spoke of the manner in which he had been found, of 
the attention, the very great kindness, he had received from total 
strangers. “ And these,” he continued, pointing to Mr. Groves 
and Mr. Philpot, who at once wished the earth would open and 
swallow them up — “ these were the good Samaritans who brought 
me on my way, and tended and cared for me. To them 1 owe my 
life, and a large debt of gratitude.” (Great applause, piolonged 
applause, from the Christian Young Men.) 

Mr. Philpot and Mr. Groves looked round, but, seeing no way 
of escape open, thought better of it, and remained in their chairs. 

” But it is not for the purpose of thanking these gentlemen that 
1 have called this meeting, and addressed you personally. Why 
have I told you of the hard life a missionary in the bush must 
necessarily enduie?” 

No answer was received to this question. Mr. Leslie, who had 
supported the vicar, said under his breath that he supposed it was 
to throw cold water on missions. 

The vicar looked round, his face glowing. 

*' I have told you all this, my dear friends, because 1 want to 
know Who will go out in my place?” 

Not a soul in the room was prepared for this finish to the highly 
interesting story. 

“I am quite sure that I won’t,” said Mr. Leslie, in an aside. 

Now, the intention the vicar had long had was this. He was not 
a man who was too proud to acknowledge it. if he had made a 
mistake; and he was now of opinion that Mr. Yorke had been, to 
a certain extent, right, in what he had said as to the aborigines not 
being like children. He had come to the conclusion that perhaps 
a man whose organization was not so fine, nor his perceptions so 
delicate, would be better fitted to undertake the life, for the reason 
that many minor points regarding the customs of the natives, which 


£20 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 

would be exceedingly distressing to a highly refined man, woul 
perhaps fail to wound a lowei and coarser nature. 

Therefore he was quite prepared to pay the entire cost of fitting 
out and training one of these young men of lower birth, who per- 
haps might volunteer to go out, as he said, in his place. For it 
still seemed to him, in some way, as if he himself owed a debt to- 
ward missions, as if he had in some way failed in his fluty by 
quitting his wcrk there; and this he thought would be the best and 
wisest manner of discharging his obligations. 

Some conversation took place among the young men. It seemed 
as if none of tlieo^ vould come forward, when, to the unbounded 
surprise of every one in the room, including the vicar, young Mr. 
Allen came forward, and said that he had been so much impressed 
by all he had heard, that he had quite made up his mind that he 
would go. 

His mother exclaimed in horror, and there would probably have 
ensued a scene which would have caused some amusement, had 
not Mr. Manley interposed. 

“We will talk about this to-morjow, Mr. Allen, if you please,” 
he said quietly. “ Will you be good enough to come to the vicar- 
age at ten o’clock to-morrow morning?” And then, turning to a 
gentleman near him, he requested him, before the meeting broke 
up. to give the pre-arranged statement of the accounts. 

It may well be believed that poor Mrs. Allen was horrified and 
grieved. That her only and darling son should go out to a place 
such as they had heard described was not to be borne. She argued, 
she entreated, she imploied, she threatened, but her son turned a 
deaf ear. The fact was, the young man had a great deal of good 
in him, and he was beginning to see that the life he was now lead- 
ing was being the ruin of him. When Mr. Manley had first come 
tc Newfoith he had taken a great interest in all the young men, 
both gentlemen and others, knowing full well that their tempta- 
tions are far greater than those of young women, and, not only so, 
but that, as a rule, their inclinations do not take a religious turn 
nearly so often as women’s. 

But when Mr. Rowen had been vicar he had had no influence 
whatever with most of the young men. They had so much admired 
Mr. Manley’s vigor and pluck and determination and strength, so 
cordially liked his genial words, that they ended by accepting all 
his good advice without question, and were considerably led by him. 
Therefore, when they found that Mr. Rowen could take part in 
neither swimming nor athletic game of any description, they ended, 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


221 


most unjustly, by putting him down as a milk -and- water sort of 
man, without a particle of backbone, whose good advice was not 
even worth listening to. 

There was no doubt that Mr. Rowen was not fairly judged. Had 
he come immediately after the old vicar, Mr. Smith, he would have 
been properly estimated, and probably much liked; but, coming 
alter Mr. Manley, he was always compaied with the latter, and 
always to his own disparagement. Mr. Manley had gone over to 
see him in his -country parish, and had lound him comfortable 
enough. He was actually his own master, aud had only seen one 
lady since he had been in his parish ! 

After this digression we must return to young Mr. Allen. At 
ten o’clock punctually he presented himself at the vicarage. The 
vicar had been seeing Mr. Philpot and Mr. Groves oif, and had 
only just returned from the station. 

“ 1 am glad to see you,” he said, genially; “ and now that jmu 
have slept on your resolution, do you still hold to it?” 

44 Yes, sir,” said the young man, heartily. “ The only thing 
against it is that my mother declares 1 shall kill her.” 

‘‘ 1 should not wish you to grieve your mother,” Mr. Manley re- 
plied, gravely. ** Perhaps it would be right that you should give 
up your own desire.” 

*‘ But I assure you, sir,” said Mr. Allen, with vehemence, ** that 
if 1 don’t go somewhere, or do something, 1 shall soon go to the 
dogs.” 

44 That is not the spirit in which to undertake so important a 
work as mission work,” replied the vicar, still looking very grave. 

44 That is not the only reason, Mr. Manley,” said young Allen. 
44 1 have always felt a great interest in those sort of fellows— nig- 
gers and natives of all sorts. 1 know 1 am of no use in England— 
1 haven’t much biains, and couldn’t pass a competitive examina- 
tion to save my life; but 1 think I might do them some good. Any- 
how, I would try. 1 am very strong, and 1 like roughing it, and, 
as 1 should only go out as a lay helper, 1 could return if 1 didn ? t 
like it.” 

44 There is a great deal of reason in what you say,” replied Mr. 
Manley; but 1 am sorry that your mother should be pained. At 
present 1 scarcely know how to advise you ; I must take time to 
considei.” 

44 But there is still another reason,” urged the young man, red- 
dening slightly, 44 why 1 can’t and won’t stay in J^ewforth.” 

44 What is that?” 


222 


THE BACHELOR VIC A ft OF KEWFOftTH. 


“ Ethel Hatton refused me yesterday,” he answered, sheepishly. 

This was very unexpected news to the vicar, who, on his pait, 
scarcely felt his usual composure. But he concealed any appear- 
ance of undue interest, and said he had not been aware that Mr. 
Allen had been paying her attention. 

“ ft was in this way,” said the young man, who had lost his 
shyness now, and seemed pleased to speak on the subject. “ 1 
was in love with her long before she was engaged to you.” 

Mr. Manley thought this remark was in somewhat questionable 
taste, but he said nothing. 

‘‘ Of course,” continued Mr. Allen, “ as soon as I heard that 
you liked her, 1 knew that it was all up with me, so i held my 
tongue. Then, when your engagement was broken oil, 1 still said 
nothing, because it wasn’t in reason that, after having liked you, 
she should look at me, and 1 let her go off to London without 
saying a word. When she came back, looking so white and sad, 
1 wo\ild have given anything (o have told her I loved her, and 
would like to take care of her; but I thought you would come 
forward, and so it would be of no use.” 

The vicar set his mouth somewhat sternly. 

“ So,” said Mr. Allen, ” 1 tried to make the best of it, although 
1 saw every day how much more miserable she was looking. Why, 
do ycu know, Mr. Manley, that sometimes I have seen her cry 
half the service.” 

‘‘ I do not know it. And, pray, what took you to the bottom 
of the church, Mr. Allen?” he added, with mere sharpness than 
was at all necessary. 

“ 1 went so that I could sit near her,” replied the young man, 
humbly. 

”1 beg your pardon,” said the vicar, quietly. ‘‘Go on with 
your story.” 

“ Well, yesterday, 1 was going along the road, and 1 thought 1 
saw her in front of me, 1 wasn’t at all sure, so I did not walk 
any fastei, but just strolled along for another mile or so. Suddenly 
she disappeared. I was near the wood, so I thought she- must have 
gone in there. 1 didn’t see anything of her, and was just going 
out again, when in the distance 1 caught sight of her white dress, 
down one of the narrow paths. 1 went to the snot, and there she 
was, sitting down, and sobbing as if her heart would break.” 

“ And what then?” asked the vicar, sternly. 

“ Oh,” returned the young man, simply, “ 1 just went on my 
knees to her, and begged and implored her to be my wife. ” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEW FORTH. 


223 


Again the vicar thought this very questionable taste; he knew 
that he could not so have intruded on the grief of a girl who did 
not love him; but again he held his peace. 

“ But,” said Mr. Allen, “she would not have anything to say 
to me. She left off crying, yet all she would say to me was that 
she was very sorry, but that if I asked her for a year, she would 
not marry me. And I know she meant it,” 

There was a slight pause; the vicar turned seaward, and appar- 
ently was watching some fishing-boats in the distance. 

Young Mr. Allen hesitated slightly, and then, with the courage 
torn of desperation, said, “ Mr. Maniey, she is miserable about 
you ; why don’t you ask her again to marry you?” 

The vicar turned round and looked at him— looked until Mr. 
Allen felt not only crushed, but absolutely and completely anni- 
hilated. 

“ I beg your pardon,” he stammered. 

But still the vicar looked, until Mr. Allen exclaimed, in despair, 
“ I can’t stand this; I must go.” 

Seeing be was prepared to make a run for the gate, Mi. Manley 
turned away, and then, with a smile, said, “ 1 think we will not 
bring my name into the conversation just yet. Suppose w r e return 
to the. subject of your going abroad.” 

Long and patiently did he explain to the young man the diffi- 
culties he would have to encounter; but Mr. Allen was nothing 
daunted. He said he had plenty of money to spend, and it he went 
to London now he should go to rack and ruin; he would far rather 
spend his money in doing some good. So at last it was decided 
that he should go, and the vicar gave him every information as to 
how to set about it. 


CHAPTER LIU. 

AN UNEXPECTED RENCOUNTER. 

It may well be imagined that Mr. Manley had not gone into the 
history of his bush life without recalling vividly to hie cwn mind 
the memory of that terrible night spent under the eucalyptus. His 
humility had never deseited lim; still he thought he should like to 
put some test as to the feelings of others. 

“If I, their spiritual head, have thus failed, how often may they 
not have done so?” he said to himself. 

So he revolved the matter in his mind, and at last thought that 


224 : 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OE NEWEORTH. 


lie would, by direct questioning, ascertain on what grounds some 
ol the members of his congregation’s faith rested. Therefore he 
selected a Mrs. Gray, a person whom he considered, as far as he 
could judge, one of the least religious among his peopk. He 
called on her, and, after some unimportant conversation, said, 
“ Mrs. Gray, have you ever beeu troubled with any doubts as to 
the absolute truth of the Christian religion, as we teach it in the 
Church of England?’ 7 

“ Doubts?” she replied, in amazement. *‘ Certainly not; 1 have 
never doubted anything.” 

Now the vicar did not consider at the time that the citadel that 
has never been assailed can not well fall. He went home saying to 
himself, “ She whom 1 have judged has stood firmer than 1,” and 
something of his old feeling came over him. But not for long. 
He knew that it was not expedient that he should remember those 
things that were behind. 

The news that lib had heard from Mr. Allen greatly disturbed 
him. He thought of Ethel sitting sobbing alone, and he remem- 
bered the time when, if she had been in grief, he would have been 
the first to comfort her; now, he could comfort every one in the 
parish before her. 

With regard to Mr. Allen, he was now fully of opinion that the 
young man was right to go. He called himself on Mrs. Allen, 
and endeavored to make her see it in the same light, and his words 
bad some weight; she promised she would try to think better of 
the scheme. He was to defray his own expenses entirely; on this 
point the vicar felt no further responsibility, knowing that the 
whole of his income might be well spent in his own parish. He 
much preferred that it should Dt so; it had only been a sense of 
duty which had prompted him to pay the expenses of some one 
else. 

And here it may as well be recorded that, being of opinion that 
what is to be done is best done quickly, he coincided with Mr. 
Allen in his view that he should depart without any delay; and 
within two days’ time the young man had set out for London, 
whence he departed shortly for Australia. Let us hope he effected 
some good. 

The vicar felt greatly troubled. The events of the past year had 
sei their mark on him. It was quite true, as his sister had said, 
that it was earthly joy he wanted. His voice was still beautiful, 
tut it was sterner than of old. He laughed but seldom; iie seemed 
to have lost his old buoyancy of spirits. At times his whole 


225 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

countenance would light up with pleasure; but these were but 
momentary gleams, which soon departed, leaving his face grave, 
though kind. 

The day after that on which Mr. Allen had spoken to him he 
walked out on the high road toward Fisherman’s Cove. He had 
no purpose in selecting that route; his choice .was quite unpremed- 
itated. He was thinking of the Hatton family, of the courtesy 
and deference the old admiial had shown him since his return, the 
kindness extended to him by Mrs. Hatton, the invariable warmth 
of greeting from Gertrude, whose marriage would now take place 
shortly; and then he thought of Ethel-thought of her until he 
reached the Cove. 

He paid his usual visits, thinking, as he did so, of the first day 
on which he had gone thither. There were the same boats drawn 
up on the beach, the crab and lobster baskets scattered about, the 
fishermen in their bright-colored jerseys, the waves dancing and 
flashing in the sunlight, but he— was he the same man who had 
leaped over the rocks in the gladness of his heart? He knew that 
he was not. 

He thought of his many visits to Mis. Stevens’s house, when his 
sister and hei erring husband had lived there. He thought of the 
evil they had wrought against him; but he felt no bitterness against 
them, he had forgiven them from his heart. He had forgiven 
every one. On his first arrival he bail made a point of going round 
to every household where they had misjudged him, both rich and 
poor, and extending to them the hand of fiiendship. He had 
especially done so to the man whom he had been on the point ot 
knocking down — the man who had told him that t he pot should 
not call the kettle black— and this very man had made him a gen- 
uine and spontaneous apology. 

In all the world there was only one person toward whom he felt 
any bitterness, and she was the girl he loved. 

After listening to Mrs. Stevens’s voluble and thrice-tcld tale as 
to the finding ot the packet of papers, he ascended the cliffs, and, 
instead of turning into the road, took the cliff path away from 
Newiorth. It was very narrow, running almost at the edge of the 
cliff; on the other side were fields of corn and crops, divided from 
the path by clumps of trees, hedges, or small bowlders. It was a 
matter of some difficulty in certain parts for two people to pass 
one another. The vicar looked at the sea, and, cautiously ap- 
proaching the edge of the cliff, looked over on to the rocks below 
—the seaweed-covered brown rocks. He took up a large stone, 


226 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE HEW FORTH. 


and threw it into the sea; he could hear the splash distinctly, and 
see the widening circle it made. 

After a time he turned his face homeward. 

But who was this coming toward him? A young lady, whose 
htad was bent ; her eyes were on the ground. He could not mis- 
take that graceful figure; he could have picked it out from among 
a thousand. He set his determined mouth, and prepared to pass 
her with a friendly word, when suddenly she raised her eyes, and 
saw him directly in front of her. Possibility of escape there was 
nene. On her left hand there were the sharp, jagged rocks below; 
a false step in that direction would precipitate her upon them. On 
her right hand, between her and the fields, there was a cluster of 
rocks and bowlders as high as hei head. Her heart beat until she 
thought she could not walk another step. Every vestige of color 
went out of her face; but still the vicar advanced, with his firm 
tread and upiiglit carriage. Her feet seemed to give way under 
her, and then, without knowing how it happened, her foot stumbled 
against a stone. She tried to save herself, and fell against the rocks 
on her right hand, giving her chest a heavy blow. Her previous 
agitation, ccmbined with the shock, were too much lurhei; she 
fainted, and would have fallen, had not the vicar rushed forward 
and caught her in his strong aims. He placed her tenderly on the 
ground, her head on his knee; and as he looked into her white, 
unconscious, but most beautiful face, a great rush of love came 
over him. Was it possible she could be dead? He bent his head 
over her, and pressed his lips tc heis, saying, with his whole heart 
in his voice, “ My darling ! Oh, my darling !” 

He continued looking into her face until he saw her cyeli # ds move 
when he placed her head gently on the ground, taking ofi his own 
hat and placing it underneath her hair. In a moment or two she 
had recovered her consciousness completely, and then he said to 
her, very gently and kindly, but still very distantly, “ Are you bel- 
ter, Miss Ethel?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, faintly. ‘‘ 1 should like to get up.” 

“ 1 will help you,” he returned. 

He put his aim round her shoulders, and lifted her gently on to 
her feet. Her returning color now flooded her face; she could net 
look at him. 

‘‘Do you think you can walk home?” he asked. 

“ Oh, yes,” she replied, earnestly; “1 am sure 1 can./’ 

‘‘That is well,” he returned; ‘‘for in this place it would be 
somewhat difficult to obtain assistance.” 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


227 


“ Good-bye,” she said, holding out her hand. 

He smiled. 

“1 am not quite so inhuman as to leave you alone in this spot; 
should you feel giddy you might fall over the cliffs. 1 shall take 
you home.” 

Her heart gave a sudden leap as he held out his arm. She took 
it; hut oh, it was not like taking his arm in former times. She 
was obliged to walk very close beside him, the path was so very 
narrow; but he managed to walk just a step in advance, and there 
seemed quite an interval between them. However narrow the path 
might have been in former times, they would somehow have walked 
side by side. He spoke a few friendly words, tut his voice sounded 
cold, and he neves once looked at her. 

As soon as they reached the high-road, she told him that she was 
quite well, and could go home alone; but, although he suffered 
her to let go his arm, he refused to leave her until she was in the 
lane leading to her father’s house, when, with a very courteous 
and stately bow, he went away. 


CHAPTER L1Y. , 

REFLECTION. 

On coming down to breakfast the next morning the vicar found 
a letter in Ethel’s well-known handwriting. He took it up with 
some slight agitation, for the events of the preceding day had in 
some degree shaken him. His hand lingered over the envelope 
before opening it; he tried to feel no expectation of pleasure in the 
contents. The letter ran thus : 

“ My dear Mr. Manley,—! do not know how to begin to write 
to you; but after your goodness to me yesterday 1 can not but beg 
you, with all my heart, to forgive me for what is past, and to as- 
sure you that 1 have always felt deep sorrow for my distrust of 
you. 1 hope you will tell me that you have forgiven me. Believe 
me to be, 

“ Your sincere friend, Ethel Hatton.” 

He put down the letter, and pondered over it. It was evident 
that she had not been entirely unconscious yesterday, but had heard 
the words he had uttered in bending over her. How else should 
she have written him this letter? 

She had asked him to forgive her. In this case what would for- 


228 THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 

givcness mean? It would mean nothing less than that lie should 
again ask her to be his wife — again take her to his aims, and nis 
heart. No, he could not do it. Pie could not forget their parting 
in the woods— his appeal to her, and her reply. He seemed again 
to hear her words, “I can't, Phil; 1 can't. You would be ray 
clergyman as well as my lover, and my faith in you would be 
gone.” Of all his bitter experience of the past, no one sentence 
had stung him as had *his. Her faith in him had gone, and, 
though now restored for a time, it might go again. 

He would write and tell her he had naught but kindness in his 
heart toward her, perhaps; but as to making any further overture 
toward her, that he would not do. And then he asked himself if 
down in the bottom of his heart he had quite forgiven her, and he 
decided at length that he had not. 

He put the letter in his pocket, making no attempt to answer it 
that day. He felt restless. He wandered into the; church, and out 
of it again; he paced his garden; he neglected his correspondence. 
He knew he could net settle down just then to his ordinary work, 
the letter in his pockel was absorbing all his thoughts. He called 
his dog and started for a long ramble by the sea-shore, leaping over 
the rocks, and throwing stones into the waler mechanically. After 
a time he left the shore, and struck across the cliffs into the woods. 
Underneath the deepest shadow of the trees he lay down, and re- 
mained lost in deepest thought. As heretofore, he saw around him 
bracken and moss and freshest undergrowth, interspersed with tiny 
wild-flowers. A glade opened before him; on every side were tall 
oaks and elms, and large trees of mountain-ash. Through their 
branches he could discern, in the distance, the blue sea. He took 
oft his hat and placed one hand beneath his head, closing his eyes; 
but he was not desirous of sleeping. 

Over and over again every circumstance of his courtship pre- 
sented itself to his mind; every circumstance, tco, of his exile— 
that exile which could have been so well borne had she been with 
him. No, he could not forgive her. He could love her, and did 
love her; but it was not with the love of the old days; it was with 
a pitying affection, as to one who was weak. 

He could not marry her now, li e would not mairy her. The wife 
who should be to him a tower of strength, when lie needed mental 
comfort, would not be realized or found in her; therefore he would 
never marry. 

A lonely rook cawed over his head, sailing away to his distant 
rookery; the birds twittered and chirped on the boughs of the trees 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 229 

around him; a timid rabbit ran almost across his feet. He noted 
all these things and smiled. He was an intense lover of nature in 
all her forms; he had the keenest power of appreciating all the 
varied beauties she displayed. 

He called his dog, and looked into his eyes. “ You haven’t for- 
saken me, old fellow,” he said, ” you never did forsake me.” 

Finding by his watch that it was getting late— for in liis unusual 
preoccupation he had taken no heed of the lime— he rose and put 
on his hat, shaking off the leaves and pieces of twigs that had fallen 
on him. His heart was very sad as he returned to the sea-shore 
and walked homeward with a quick step. The water in the rocky 
pools showed clear and green, it eddied round the rocks; the peb* 
bles shone; tne sea sparkled, blue and bright. But the loveliness 
of the day was taken no heed of by the vicar; his heart was too 
sore. He took the usual five-o’clock service, and went home im- 
mediately, shutting himself up in his study. He had noted that 
Ethel was not in church. lie spent the evening in reading, but 
his thoughts perpetually wandered; he could not fix them on his 
subject. 

Toward nine o’clock he again went into the church, and stood 
looking at the east window — that window which he had shown 
her before every one. Its beauty attracted him, as it always did; 
his thoughts for a lew moments became absorbed in the subjects. 
The sun had set, but sufficient light remained to throw out the cen- 
tral figures; and then the vicar gave a deep sigh and walked home 
again.* No, he cculd not forgive her, as forgiveness really meant. 

At eleven he went up to his room, and, putting out his light, sat 
at the open window. The mooD light was on the sea, shedding one 
broad path cf silver across it ; the shipping was bathed in subdued 
light. The trees in the garden waved their solemn good-night;” 
their boughs almost looked in at his windows. He remembered 
the moonlight nights abroad— those nights when he had lain dcwn 
beneath, the bare canopy of heaven and contemplated the stars in 
all their wondrous majesty of beauty. And then he remembered 
again that night when he too had failed— had, as he thought, 
erred, had been weak; and a great flood of sorrow came over him. 
Should he sit in judgment on one who had been weak also? And 
then it seemed to him a Christ-like thing to forgive— to forgive from 
the lowest depths of his heart. 

He put aside all his pride, all his bitterness, all bis just resent- 
ment, and determined that he would go to Ethel on the morrow, 
and would ask her to be his wife; more than this, that he would 


230 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF NEWFORTH. 


love and cherish her, and ever hide from her the fact that she was 
no longer in his eyes what she once had been. 


CHAPTER LV. 

RECONCILIATION. 

To Ethel the knowledge that the vicar still retained his love for 
her had been strange and marvelous; had been productive of joy 
too deep for utterance. From the moment of his return until now 
he had never addressed one word to her except such as formal 
courtesy demanded, and she remembered the misery she had •en- 
dured in thinking that his affections might be transferred to some 
other woman. But now his words rang in her ears— those words 
spoken when, for aught he knew, she might have been dead — “ My 
darling! Oh, my darUng! ,y Would he have spoken them had 
his love been a thing of the past? Bhe knew that he would not. 
The fact was almost too incredible; she felt in ecstasy. But then 
she remembered how, the moment her consciousness had returned, 
he had withdrawn from her, and had paid her only such attention 
as kindness and humanity demanded. It was evident she must 
make her penitence manifest; she was only too thankful to have 
the opportunity. 

She knew that to write to him was, in effect, to ask him to re- 
turn to her; but, if he loved her, why should she not do so? She 
posted her letter that evening heiself— for the accident had left no 
trace— and lay awake all night thinking of the morrow. Surely he 
would come, or, if he did not come, he would write. She dressed 
herself in her prettiest dress, and sat in the house all day; but he 
did not come, and he did not write. A great weight of heaviness 
came ovei her. He had not forgiven her; he would not forgive 
her. Then, remembering how, in the days that were gone by, he 
had always been ready and anxious to stietch out a helping hand 
to those who had injured him, how cheerfully he had ignored their 
offenses, how readily forgiven them, she marveled that to her, out 
of all the world, he should be hard, and the tears fell fast down 
her cheeks. 

“ What are you crying about?” asked her sistei, briskly. 

“I’m not crying,” said Ethel, checking her tears, “only- 
only—” 

“ Only you expected the vicar to come and see how you were— 1 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


231 


know wliat that dress means— and ask you to marry him all over 
again. Well, my dear. I’m sorry for you, but he won’t do it; and 
you can’t expect it.” 

Ethel made no reply; the precious words spoken by Mr. Manley 
had not passed her lips. She sighed, believing now that her sis- 
ter’s words were true— that he would not come, he would not for- 
give. Her pain was almost too great. She sat at her window, 
watching the moonlight, as, unknown to her, the vicar was doing 
also, and cried as if her heart would break. But on the morrow, 
at ten o’clock, a note was brought her. It was very short, and 
there was neither formal beginning ncr ending. “ I hope to be 
with you at twelve o’clock to-day.” 

Her breath came in gasps; she sat down, a great joy in her eyes. 

“ What’s that about?” asked Miss Hatton, who was in the 
dining-room with her sister. Ethel gave her the note. 

“ The vicar coming at twelve to see you! All I can say is that it 
is extremely kind of him.” 

And then, her mind not having recovered its just balance, Ethel 
confided tc her sister the words that he had spoken when she had 
fainted. 

Miss Hatton looked thoughtful for a moment, then spoke brisk- 
ly, 44 Go upstairs at once, Etbel, and make yourself look as nice 
as you possibly cau.” 

And then a consultation as to dress arose. Ethel possessed a 
veiy pretty and most becoming white morning-dress, very suitable 
for this ivarm, delicious day; but, as she justly alleged, were she 
to put it on it would look as if she were an expectant bride, 01 
something of that soit. 

Her sister saw the force of her objection. 

“ You hare that pretty white-and-blue cotton; you look as well 
in that as in anything; go and put it on at once; it fits you beauti- 
fully, and is a really well-made dress.” 

“But, oh, Gertrude,” said Ethel, pausing at the door, “sup 
pose we are building our hopes on nothyig; suppose he shouldn’t 
care about me now?” 

*• Go and make yourself nice,” returned Miss Hatton, not deign- 
ing to notice the last sentence. “If you look pretty, half— no, 
three fourths— no, nine tenths of the battle is gained.” 

But Ethel knew that nine tenths of the battle would not be 
gained with the vicar. 

“ 1 will tell you what 1 will do,” said her sister. 44 1 will make 
the drawing-room look as nice as 1 possibly can, and then I will 


232 


THE BACHELOR YICAR OF HEWFORTH. 


take mother out tor a walk. Father's out, and will not be home to 
lunch.” 

The drawing room chintz was rather faded; the carpet some- 
what worn; the furniture, though solid, old-fashioned. But Miss 
Hatton so skillfully adorned the room with flowers that they be- 
came the only noticeable feature. Flowers were everywhere— on the 
mantelpiece, the tables, the brackets, and a huge bowl of roses 
brightened the hall. The windows opened on to the garden; the 
fresh, soft morning breeze entered; the trees on the lawn looked 
cool and green. 

“ 1 think it looks very well,” said Miss Hatton, pausing at the 
door before going up to get ready. 

But to sit in the drawing-room awaiting the vicar v as more than 
Ethel could do. She remained in ner bedroom. 

“ Let me look at you before 1 go,” said her sister, scrutinizing 
her earnestly. ” You are a little too pale, but you are very pretty.” 

As the clock struck twelve the vicar knocked at the door. Ethel 
bad heard his step up the gravel path, but she was afraid to go 
down until summoned. Her heart beat as she opened the door, and 
saw him standing at the end of the long room; but he had not 
heard her quiet footsteps; he was looking out of the window. 

Suddenly he turned, and saw her standing there, afraid to ap- 
proach, afraid to attract his attention; and in that moment he could 
not but remember how, in the former time, it had been her wont 
to run to him and throw her arms round his neck. 

'* How do you do?” he said, quietly, and smiled. His cheeks 
were still hollow, but his smile had now regained its old brightness, 
“ 1 hope you are none the worse for your accident.” 

“No,” she answered, remaining standing; neither did she ask 
him to sit down. 

He turned his head, and again looked out of the window. 

'* How well your garden is looking,” he said, cheerfully. 

She made no reply. He looked at her, and saw that her bosom 
was heaving, and that her face was very w T hite. He knew it would 
be cruel lo keep her longer in suspense. 

“ Ethel,” he said, quietly, ” 1 have come to ask you again to be 
my wife;” and he took her lifeless, cold hand in his. 

A startled look came into her eyes; he had not asked her thus 
before, with this quiet friendliness; then his cheek had glowed, his 
eyes had sparkled. 

“ Ho you love me?” she asked, piteously. 

” 1 do love you.” 


THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWEORTH. 


233 


In a moment she had sunk down on her knees at his feet. 

“ I am not worthy to he your wife,” she said, brokenly. “ For- 
give me, Phil, for all that has taken place; oh, forgive me.” 

”1 do forgive you,” he answered, calmly. “ You must not 
kneel to me.” 

“ But 1 must,” she answered, wildly; " for 1 am not worthy to 
be your wife. But, if you will have me, X will try to atone to you, 
Phil. My whole life shall be one long atonement. 1 can not ex- 
press to you what 1 feel ; how 1 should like, now, to put my head 
on the ground, when X think of all that is past, that you might put 
your foot upon it.” 

He raised her forcibly. 

” 1 want a wife who will love me,” he said, gravely. “ 1 do not 
desire a wife whose remorse is such that her life, as you express it, 
will be ‘ one long atonement.’ If that is to be so, 1 will not marry 
you. I wish you to love me.” 

She stood facing him: then her face lit up. 

“Love you?” she said, feelingly; ‘‘1 love you, Phil, with all 
my heart. 1 know that my love has not been one that has endured 
all things, has hoped all things, has believed all things. But it 
shall be so in future; it shall, indeed. 1 feel very humble before 
you, Phil—” 

“ Not so,” he interposed; you must not, indeed.” 

“ But, although X have erred, 1 have sufiered; I have suftered 
keenly, Phil. Do you think X did not suffer when I paited from 
you? Do you think 1 did not suffer through all that weary time 
when I was divided from you— when 1 mourned my wrong judg- 
ment of you, when 1 repented from my soul? Do you think I did 
not suffer when I knew that jou were wandering amid foreign 
lands, enduring every hardship, tor Christ’s sake? But, most of 
all, have I not suftered since your return, when the knowledge of 
all 1 lost cut me to the heart? Have 1 not suffered in seeing your 
averted glances, in healing your coldly-polite words? In the for- 
mer time 1 experienced that jealousy which was cruel as the grave; 
but I will never experience it again, Phil; I will not, indeed. For 1 
know now that Love is stronger than Death. I love you, Phil; 1 
love you.” 

As she stood before him the golden sunlight gave a glory to her 
hair, to her lcvely eyes. Her face, perfect as to feature, lovely as 
to expression, spoke to him even more loudly than her words. His 
faith in her came back, his love was restored. He knew that she 
spoke the truth— that her love would never fail again, that her 


234 THE BACHELOR VICAR OE NEWFOETH. 

faith in him would never waver, that he should have a wife in 
heart and soul and mind and truth. No longer did he need the 
forgiveness of the Christian man and the clergyman, no longer did 
he require to school himself. Joy and gladness and happiness had 
returned— never, so far as his love was concerned, to leave him. 

Once again his cheek glowed, his eyes shone. He held out his 
arms, saying, “ Come to me, my well-beloved,” and folded her to 
his heart. 

And, as she remained in his embrace, she said, softly, 

*" “ ‘ I will grow round him* in his place, 

Grow, live, die looking on his face— 

Die, dying clasped in his embrace.’ ” 


THE END. 


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address, postage free, by the publisher, on receipt of price. Parties 
wishing the Pocket Edition of The Seaside Library must be careful to 
mention the Pocket Edition, otherwise the Ordinary Edition will be sent 

Newsdealers wishing catalogues of The Seaside Library, 1 ocket Edition, 
bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, addresses, ana 
number required. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 t0 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


LIST OF 

Works by the author of “ Adclie’s 
Husband.” 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 

Works by the author of “ A Great 
Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

246 A Fatal Dower 10 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 

588 Cherry 10 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

37 The Wooing O’t 20 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

286 Which Shall it Be? 20 

389 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid... 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

564 At Bay 10 

Alison’s Works. 

194 “So Near, and Yet So Far!”. .. 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

181 The House That Jack Built 10 

F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 
Romance 10 

R. M. Ballantyne’s Works. 

89 The Red Eric 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erling the Bold 10 

Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

<$9 The Fisher Village 30 


AUTHORS. 


Basil’s Works. 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green ” . . 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 

M. Betham-Edwards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage: or, The Wait- 
ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories 10 

594 Doctor Jacob 20 

Walter Besant’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair. 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

346 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

230 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times - 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

89 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers . 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 10 
627 White Heather 28 


THE SEASIDE LIB EAR 7. — Pocket Edition. 


R. I). Blackmore’s Works. 


67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Uprnore, Bart., M. P. 20 


Miss M. E. Braddon’s Works. 


35 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune 20 

74 Aurora Floyd 20 

HO Under the Red Flag 10 

153 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery. . 20 

263 An Ishmaelite ; 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss Braddon 20 

434 Wyllard’s Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Parti '. 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s -Daugh- 
ter. Part. II 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard's Daughter 20 

489 Rupert Godwin . 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Only a Clod 20 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World. 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

529 The Doctors Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

541 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

648 The Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 

549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 
er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

557 To the Bitter End 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont’s Legacy. ... 20 


Works by Charlotte HI. Braeme, 
Author of “ Dora Thorne.’* 


19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

*2 Lord Lynne’s Choice ... 1 ...... . 10 


148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms . . 1(1 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure 20 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter ”. . 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False R 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

287 At War With Herself 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight 10 

291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

294 Hilda io 

295 A Woman's War 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream p 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 1(1 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 2 ( 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 

469 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn's Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 2(1 

476 Between Two Sins 16 

516 Put Asunder; or, Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce 2C 

576 Her Martyrdom 20 


Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 


15 Jane Ej T re 20 

57 Shirley 20 

lilioda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts 20 

227 Nancy 20 


Robert Buchanan’s Works. 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 


Man 20 

154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan — 10 

Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor . 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition . 


E. Fairfax Byrrne’s Works. 


521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial 20 

608 For Lilias 20 

Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

16 7 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot 10 

233 " I Say No;” or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet 10 

623 My Lady’s Money 10 


419 The Chainbearer; or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe; or. The Littlepage 

Manuscripts 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts 20 

422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or, The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 

425 The Oak-Openings ; or, The Bee- 

Hunter 20 

431 The Monikins 20 

Georgiana M. Craik’s Works. 

450 Godfrey Helstone 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 20 

B. M. Croker’s Works, 

207 Pretty Miss Neville 20 

260 Proper Pride 10 

412 Some One Else.. 20 

Alphonse Daudet’s Works. 

534 Jack \ 20 

574 The Nabob: A Story of Parisian 

Life and Manners 20 


Hugh Conway’s Works. 

240 Called Back 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 

Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Days 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A Family Affair 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 

J. Fenimore Cooper’s Works. 

60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy, 20 

309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers ; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witch 20 

361 The Red Rover. 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman; or, The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons 20 

394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or, Tfre Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish... 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack Tier; or, The Florida Reef 20 


Charles Dickens’s Works. 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. 1 20 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. II — 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. I 20 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 20 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. First half. 20 
37 Nicholas Nickleby. Second half 20 

41 Oliver Twist 20 

77 A Tale of Two Cities 20 

84 Hard Times 10 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 1st half 20 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. First half 20 

94 Little Dorrit. Second half 20 

106 Bleak House. First half 20 

106 Bleak House. Second half 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st half — 20 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 20 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 10 

131 Our Mutual Friend 40 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 10 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. . . 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

169 The Haunted Man 10 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. First half 20 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. Second half 20 

439 Great Expectations 20 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 10 

447 American Notes 20 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mud fog Papers, &c 20 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood.. 20 

456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People 20 


TEE SEASIDE LI BE ARY. — Pocket Edition . 


F. Du Boisgobey’s Works. 

82 Sealed Lips 

104 The Coral Pin 

264 PiGdouche, a French Detective. 
338 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

First half 

828 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

Second half 

453 The Lottery Ticket 

4?5 The Prima Donna’s Husband.. 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, Steel 

Gauntlets 

523 The Consequences of a Duel. A 

Parisian Romance 

“The Duciless’s” Works. 

2 Molly Bawn 

6 Portia 

14 Airy Fairy Lilian 

16 Phyllis 

25 Mrs. Geoffrey 

29 Beauty’s Daughters 

30 Faith and Unfaith 

118 Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering 

119 Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. .. 

123 Sweet is True Love 

129 Rossmoyue 

134 The Witching Hour, and Other 

Stories 

136 “That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stories 

166 Moonshine and Marguerites.... 

171 Fortune’s Wheel 

284 Doris 

312 A Week in Killarney 

342 The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve 

390 Mildred Trevanion 

404 In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories 

486 Dick’s Sweetheart 

494 A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 

517 A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 

511 “ As It Fell Upon a Day.” 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

55 The Three Guardsmen 

75 Twenty Years After 

259 The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 

Monte-Cristo ” 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

j ^ «*•*••••••••••••• 

262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 
Part II 

George Eliot’s Works, 

3 The Mill on the Floss 

36 Adam Bede 

81 Middlemarcli. 1st half 

31 Middlemarcli. 2d half 

34 Daniel Deronda. 1st half 

34 Daniel Deronda. 2d half 

*2 Romola 


B. L. Farjeon’s Works, 


179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love’s Harvest 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget 20 

G. Manville Fenn’s Works, 

193 The Rosery Folk 10 

558 Poverty Corner 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Dark House. . 10 

Octave Feuillet’s Works, 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man 10 

386 Led Astray ; or, “ La Petite 
Comtesse ” 10 

'Airs. Forrester’s Works. 

80 June 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 
Other Tales 10 

Jessie Fotliergill’s Works. * 

314 Peril 20 

572 Healey 20 

R. E. Francillon’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress: A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol I 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

33 The Clique of Gold 10 

38 The Widow Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 

Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

555 Cara Roma 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Eyes 20 

John B. Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 


20 

30 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

10 

20 

10 

10 

10 

20 

20 

10 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 

20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Arundel Motto 10 

381 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

Works by the Author of “Judith 
Wynne.” 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

506 Lady Lovelace 20 

William H, G. Kingston’s Works. 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 
133 Peter the Whaler 10 

Charles Lever’s Works. 

191 Harry Lorrequer . . 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half 20 

312 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” Sec- 
ond half 20 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton’s Works. 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Maltravers 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
ond half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or, The Siege of Grenada 10 

George Macdonald’s Works. 

282 Donal Grant 20 

325 The Portent 10 

826 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 
for Men and Women 10 

Florence Marryat’s Works. 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories 10 

183 Old Coutrairy, and Other 

Stories 10 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 

449 Peeress and Player 20 

Captain Marryat’s Works. 

88 The Privateersman 20 

372 The Little Savage 10 

Helen B. Matliers’s Works. 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

J88 Found Out 10 


Justin McCarthy’s Works. 

121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola 20 

Mrs, Alex. McVeigh Miller’s 
Works. 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; . or, The 

Miser’s Treasure 20 

269 Lancaster’s Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or, Aline 

Rodney’s Secret. 20 

Jean Middleuias’s Works. 

155 Lad\ r Muriel's Secret ’ 20 

539 Silvermead * * 20 

Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “Golden Girls” 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman. ..... 20 

245 Miss Tommy 10 

David Christie Murray’s Works. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ” 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 


Works by the author of “ My 
Ducats and My Daughter.” 

376 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter. .. 20 

W. E. Norris’s Works. 


184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

855 That Terrible Man .'10 

50C Adrian Vidal 30 

Laurence Oliphant’s Works. 

47 Altiora Peto ? 20 

537 Piccadilly io 

Mrs. Oliphant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgraj', 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam 20 

j351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John ' 20 

37'0 Lucy Croftou 10 

371 Margaret Maitland 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 
the Scottish Ref ormation ... . 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Mrs. Oliphant’s Works -Con- 
tinued. 

402 Lilliesleaf ; or, Passages in the 
Life of Mrs. Margaret Mait- 


land of Sunnyside 20 

410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Days of My Life 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate 20 

569 Harry Muir 20 

603 Agnes. 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. 2d half ... 20 

604 Innocent. 1st half 20 

604 Innocent. 2d half 20 

005 Ombra 20 

“ Ouida’s ” Works. 

4 Under Two Flags 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras.. 20 

116 Moths 20 

128 Afternoon and Other Sketches. 10 

226 Friendship 20 

228 Princess Napraxine 20 

238 Pascarel 20 

239 Signa 20 

433 A Rainy June 10 


Janies Payn’s Works. 

48 Thicker Than Water 20 

186 The Canon’s Ward 20 

343 The Talk of the Town 20 

577 In Peril and Privation 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 20 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 20 

611 Babylon.. . 20 

Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works. 

428 Zero: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 10 
477 Affinities 10 


Eleanor C. Price’s Works. 

178 The Foreigners. 20 

331 Gerald 20 


Charles Reade’s Works. 

46 Very Hard Cash 20 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 10 

210 Readiana: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events. . .. 10 

213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place. . .... 20 

216 Foul Play' 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Money; or, APerilous 

Secret . 10 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of-Fact Ro- 
mance 20 


Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 


71 A Struggle for Fame 20 

593 Berna Boyle 20 

“Rita’s” Works. 

252 A Sinless Secret 16 

446 Dame Durden 26 

598 “ Corinna.” A Study 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

157 Milly’sHero 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in London 20 

590 The Courting of Mary Smith ... 20 

W. Clark Russell’s Works. 

85 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 

28 Ivanhoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

Monastery ”) 20 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day 20 

418 St. Ronan’s Weli 20 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories 10 

William Sime’s Works. 

42S Boulderstone; or. New Men and 

Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer 10 

Hawley Smart’s Works. 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance 2$ 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down... 10 

Frank E. Smedley’s Works. 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 

Pupil 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


Eugene Sue’s Works. 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I... 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II.. 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Parti. 20 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 

William M. Thackeray’s Works. 


27 Vanity Fair 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

164 The Newcomes. Part 1 20 

164 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

531 The Prime Minister (1st half).. 20 
531 The Prime Minister (2d hall).. 20 

Annie Thomas’s Works. 

141 She Loved Him! 10 

142 Jenifer 20 

565 No Medium 10 

Anthony Trollope’s Works. 

32 The Land Leaguers 20 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 

xaphy 20 

147 Rachel Ray 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love 10 

531 The Prime Minister. 1st half. . 20 
531 The Prime Minister. 2d half. . . 20 

Margaret Veley’s Works, 

298 Mitchelhurst Place 10 

586 “ For Percival ” 20 

Jules Verne’s Works. 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 20 
368 The Southern Star ; or, the Dia- 
mond Land 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part 1 10 

678 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 
Part II 10 

Ii. B. Walford’s Works. 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 10 

256 Mr. Smith: A Part of His Life. 20 
258 Cousins 20 

F. Warden’s Works. 

192 At the World’s Mercy 20 

248 The House on the Marsh 10 

286 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand 20 

482 A Vagrant Wife 20 

656 A Prince of Darkness 20 

E. Werner’s Works. 

827 Raymond's Atonement 20 

540 At a High Price 20 

fr* J. Whyte-Melville’s Works. 

409 Roy’s Wife 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 
the Bar 20 

John Strange Winter’s Works. 

492 Mignon ; or, Booties’ Baby. Il- 
lustrated 10 

800 Houp-La. Illustrated 10 


Mrs. Henry Wood’s "Works. 

8 East Lynne 20 

255 The Mystery 20 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters 10 

508 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 

and Other Tales 10 

Charlotte M. Yonge’s Works. 

247 The Armourer's Prentices 10 

275 The Three Brides 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish. ATale 10 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield 2C 

Miscellaneous. 

53 The Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 
61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

99 Barbara’s History. Amelia B. 

Edwards 20 

103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell.. 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M. G. 

Wight wick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. Thomas Hughes 20 

122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

150 For Himself Alone. T. W. 

Speight 1(1 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 

erwick 10 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 20 

158 The Starling. Norman Mac- 
leod, D.D 10 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

ler 10 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 

on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 10 

163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 20 

170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 30 

174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 20 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

tie JephsOn 10 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

Queen Victoria. 10 

182 The Millionaire 20 

185 Dita. Lady Margaret Majendie 19 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition. 


r- 


Miscellaneous — Continued. 


187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

Bremer 10 

198 A Husband’s Story 10 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 

O’Rell 10 

218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. R. James. . 20 

219 Lady Clare : or, The Master of 

the Forges. From French of 

Georges Ohnet 10 

242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 10 
253 The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer.; 10 
257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
geant .' 10 

266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 10 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters 10 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Haj^- 

den 20 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 20 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ” 10 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr 20 

313 The Lover’s Creed. Mrs. Cash- 
el Hoey 20 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann Qhat- 
rian 10 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 20 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 10 

335 The White Witch 20 

338 The Family Difficulty. Sarah 

Doudney 10 

340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 20 

841 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 
Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 

Laura Jean Libbey 20 

847 As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 

Vince 20 

350 Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

352 At Any Cost Edward Garrett. 10 
354 The Lottery of Life. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham 20 


355 The Princess Dagomar of Po- 
land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 
856 A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 
865 George Christy; or, The For- 
tunes of a Minstrel. Tony 


Pastor 20 

866 The Mysterious Hunter; or, 
The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Carleton 20 

369 Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 


874 The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 
Jupiter Paeon 20 

381 The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot 10 

382 Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

383 Introduced to Society. Hamil- 

ton Aid 6 10 

887 The Secret of the Cliffs. Char- 
lotte French 20 

389 Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

399 Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

403 An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

406 The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

407 Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood. .. 20 
426 Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

430 A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ” 10 

432 The Witch’s Head. H. Rider 
Haggard »0 

435 Klytia: A Story of Heidelberg 

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436 Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

441 A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 

442 Ranthorpe. George Henry 

Lewes 20 

443 The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 
452 In the West Countrie. May 

Crommelin 20 

457 The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. Charles Marvin 10 

458 A Week of Passion; or, The 

Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 20 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Lewis Carrol 

With forty-two illustrations 

by John Tenniel 20 

468 The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 
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473 A Lost Son. Mary Linskill 10 

474 Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 20 

479 Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 

483 Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

485 Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 

Cobban 10 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s W T ife. Lucas 

Malet 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lovel- 
and Lord ” 10 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman 16 

505 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 10 

509 Nell Haffenden. Tighe Hopkins 90 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY. —Pocket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
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532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
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545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel . . 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh 20 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, 

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James Grant 20 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 
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575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 
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581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sposi.) Allessandro Manzoni 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needed 20 

583 Victory Deane. Cecil Griffith . . 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

595 A North Country Maid. Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron 20 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. G.eorge 

Temple 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 

• 614 No. 99. Arthur Griffiths. ..... 10 


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647 Goblin Gold. By May Crom- 

melin ‘ 10 

648 The Angel of the Bells. By F. 

Du Boisgobey 20 

649 Cradle and Spade. By William 

Sime 20 

651 “Self or Bearer” By Walter 

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652 The Lady With the Rubies. By 

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653 A Barren Title. T. W. Speight 10 

654 “Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

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655 The Open Door, and The Por- 

trait. By Mrs. Oliphant 10 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillon and Wm. Senior... 10 

657 Christmas Angel. Bv B. I.. 

Farjeon 10 

658 The History of a. Week. By- 

Mrs. L. B~. Walford 10 

661 Rainbow Gold. By David Chris- 

tie Murray 20 

662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

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667 The Golden Lion of Granpere. 

By* Anthony Trollope 20 

668 Haif-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

671 Don Gesualdo. By “Ouida.”.. 10 

674 First Person Singular. By 

David Christie Murray 20 

675 Mrs. Dymond. By Miss Thack- 

eray 20 

677 Griselda. Bv the author of “ A 

Woman’s Love-Story ” 20 

679 Where Two Ways Meet. By 

Sarah Doudney 10 

681 A Singer’s Story. By May Laf- 

fan 10 

682 In the Middle Watch. By W. 

Ciark Russell 20 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. By Mrs. J. Harcourt- 
Roe 20 


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MRS. ALEXANDER’S WORKS. 

30 Her Dearest Foe 20 

36 The Wooing O’t 20 

46 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

370 Ralph Wilton’s Weird 10 

400 Which Shall it Be? . 20 

532 Maid, Wife, or Widow... 10 

1231 The Freres 20 

1259 Valerie’s Fate 10 

1391 Look Before You Leap 20 

. 1502 The Australian Aunt... 10 

1595 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

1721 The Executor : 20 

1934 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid 10 

WILLIAM BLACK’S WORKS. 

13 A Princess of Thule 20 

28 A Daughter of Heth 10 

47 In Silk Attire 10 

48 The Strange Adventures of a Phaeton 10 

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53 The Monarch of Mincing Lane IP 

79 Madcap Violet (small type) . . . 10 

604 Madcap Violet (large type) 20 

242 The Three Feathers 10 

390 The Marriage of Moira Fergus, and The Maid of Killeena. 10 

417 Macleod of Dare 20 

451 Lady Silverdale’s Sweetheart 10 

568 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 10 

816 White Wings: A Yachting Romance 10 

826 Oliver Goldsmith 10 

950 Svairise: A Story of These Times 20 

1025 The Pupil of Aurelius 10 

1032 That Beautiful Wretch 10 

1161 The Four MacNicols 10 

1264 Mr. Pisistratus Brown, M.P., in the Highlands 10 

1429 An Adventure in Thule. A Story for Young People 10 

1556 Shandon Bells 20 

1683 Yolande 20 

1893 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love Affairs and other Advent- 
ures 20 

MISS M. E. BRADDON’S WORKS. 

26 Aurora Floyd 20 

69 To the Bitter End. . 20 

89 The Lovels of Arden 20 

95 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

109 Eleanor’s Victory 20 

114 Darrell Markham 10 

140 The Lady Lisle 10 

171 Hostages to Fortune 20 

190 Henry Dunbar 20 

215 Birds of Prey 26 

235 An Open Verdict 20 

251 Lady Audley’s Secret. 20 

254 The Octoroon. 10 

260 Charlotte’s Inheritance 20 

287 Leighton Grange 10 

295 Lost for Love 20 

322 Dead- Sea Fruit 26 

459 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

469 Rupert Godwin 3$ 


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481 Vixen 20 

482 The Cloven Foot 20 

500 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter 20 

519 Weavers and Weft 10 

525 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

539 A Strange World . 20 

550 Fenton’s Quest 20 

562 John Marchmvjnt’s Legacy f) . 20 

572 The Lady’s Mile 20 

579 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

581 Only a Woman (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

619 Taken at the Flood 20 

641 Only a Clod 20 

649 Publicans and Sinners 20 

656 George Caulfield’s Journey 10 

665 The Shadow in the Corner 10 

666 Bound to John Company; or, Robert Ainsleigh 20 

701 Barbara; or, Splendid Misery 20 

705 Put to the Test (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part 1 20 

734 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daughter. Part II 20 

811 Dudley Carleon 10 

828 The Fatal Marriage 10 

837 Just as I Am; or, A Living Lie 20 

942 Asphodel 20 

1154 The Mistletoe Bough 20 

1265 Mount Royal 20 

1469 Flower and Weed 10 

1553 The Golden Calf 20 

1638 A Hasty Marriage (Edited by Miss M. E. Braddon) 20 

1715 Phantom Fortune ! 20‘ 

1736 Under the Red Flag - 10 

1877 An Ishmaelite 20 

1915 The Mistletoe Bough. Christmas, 1884 (Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon) . 20 

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396 Jane Eyre (in bold, handsome type) 20 

162 Shirley 20 

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£29 Wuthering Heights 10 

438 Villette 20 

967 The Tenant of Wildfell Hall 20 

1098 Agnes Grey 20 

LUCY RANDALL COMFORT’S WORKS. 

495 Claire’s Love -Life 1© 

552 Love at Saratoga 20 

672 Eve, The Factory Girl 20 

716 Black Bell 20 

854 Corisande. 20 

90? Three Sewing Girls 20 

1019 His First Love . . 20 

1183 Nina; or, The Mystery of Love 20 

1192 Vendetta; or. The Southern Heiress 20 

1254 Wild and Wilful 20 

1533 Elfrida; or, A Young Girl’s Love-Story 20 

170& Love and Jealousy (illustrated) 20 

1810 Married for Money (illustrated ) 20 

1829 Only Mattie Garland 20 

1830 Lottie and Victorine; or, Working fheir Own Way 20 

1834 Jewel, the Heiress. A Girl’s Love Story 20 

1861 Love at Long Branch; or, Inez Merivale’s Fortunes 20 

WILKIE COLLINS’ WORKS. 

10 The Woman in White 26 

14 The Dead Secret 20 

22 Man and Wife 20 

32 The Queen of Hearts 20 

38 Antonina 20 

42 Hide-and-Seek 26 

76 The New Magdalen 10 

94 The Law and The Lady 20 

180 Armadale 20 

191 My Lady’s Money 10 

225 The Two Destinies 10 

250 No Name 20 

286 After Dark 10 

409 The Haunted Hotel 10 

433 A Shocking Story 10 

487 A Rogue’s Life * * • . 



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THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price S£5 Cents per Copy. Subscription Price $3 00 per Year. 


Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, "The Duchess,’' 
author of “ Molly Bawn,” Luct Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
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author of “ Mauch," and Florence A. Warden, author of ‘ The House on the 
Marsh.” 


COMMENTS OJ 

New York Fashion Bazar. This 
popular ladies’ magazine for Decem- 
ber is promptly at hand, and will be 
found an interesting and valuable 
number. As we have before stated, 
4C is one of the most complete publica- 
tions of the kind published in this 
country. It contains seventy - two 
pages, fully illustrated, complete de- 
scriptions of the latest fashions, enter- 
prising stories and sketches, valuable 
household hints, and much attractive 
miscellaneous reading. It is published 
by George Munro, New York, at $2.50 
per year . — Sunday Times , Portland, 
Me. 

The December number of The New 
York Fashion Bazar, is overflowing 
with-information relative to the world 
of fashion in every department of 
dress, and its plates are numerous. 
The ladies will be delighted with this 
number, as the latest styles are por- 
trayed in a practical and interesting 
manner, and every direction for mak- 
ing, etc. There are stories, sketches 
and good reading besides — Evening 
Standard. New Bedford, Mass. 

We have received a copy of The 
New York Bazar for December, pub- 
lished by George Munro, at New York 
City. Its plates are as flue as any yet 
published, and its descriptive matter 
is full and complete. Its price is 
twenty-five cents per copy or $2.50 per 
year .—Dakota Huronite. 

The New York Fashion Bazar, a 
monthly magazine of some seventy- 
five pages, has many attractive feat- 
ures. The December number, with 
its colored fashion plate supplement 
and profuse illustrations, is specially 
valuable. It contains everything the 
ladies want to know about dress, be 
side a variety of literary matter. — 
Gazette and Courier , Greenfield, Mass. 

The New York Fashion Bazar is f< 
per copy. Subscription price $3.00 per 

GEORGE MILNH O, Mu 
P.O.Box 3751. 17 to ii 


THE PRESS* 

The Fashion Bazar, published by 
George Munro, New York, presents a 
most attractive number for November, 
the double page fashion plate gives 
six full - length figures, handsomely 
colored, showing the most desirable of 
late fashions in garments for the win- 
ter, and this is followed by the most 
reliable information, fully illustrated, 
of all the articles of ladies’ wear on 
which the sex desire to be fully in- 
formed. The Bazar is a really elegant 
publication, and needs only to be seen 
to be fully appreciated. ^Lawrence 
Daily American , 

The December number of the New 
York Fashion Bazar fully maintains 
the reputation gained toy this period 
ical as a fashion magazine In addition 
to its fashion plates there are severa* 
pages of choice embroidery pattern.^ 
which the lady patrons of the Bazar 
will fully appreciate,— Union* Man 
Chester, Is. H ' 

The New ora Fashion Bazar con- 
tains the latest styles for fall and win 
ter costumes, also a pleasing variety 
in evening dress and millinery. Con 
siderable space is devoted to fashion 
items, personal gossip, Christmas 
gifts, etc. The reading matter is ex 
cellent. — St. John lelegraph 

We have received from the publish 
er, George Munro, of New Y’ork, the 
Fashion Bazar, one of the most, com 
plete fashion magazines we ever saw 
It is published monthly, and is only 
$2 50 per year. It contains some sixty 
pages, and is profusely illustrated — 
Argus, Evansville, Ind. 

The New York Fashion Bazar for 
December, published by Geo. Munro, 
is well filled with winter fashion notes, 
plates, and designs, and contains also 
many pages of choice literature,— 
Toronto Globe , 

r sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
3 *ear. Address 

tiro’s Publishing House, 

7 Vamlewater Street, New York, 



GRAND, SQUARE AND UPRIGHT PIANOS. 



ARE AT PRESENT THE MOST POPULAR 

AND PREFERRED BY THE LEADING ARTISTS. 

SOHMER & CO., Manufacturers, No. 149 to 155 E. 14th Street, N. Y. 


They are used 
in Conservato- 
ries, Schools and 
Seminaries, on ac- 
count of their su- 
perior tone and 
unequaled dura- 
bility. 

The SOHMEIt 
Piano is a special 
favorite "with the 
leading musicians 
and critics. 


FIRST PRIZE 

DIPLOMA. 


Centennial Exhibi- 
tion, 1876; Montreal, 
1881 and 1882. 


The enviable po> 
sition Sohmer & 
Co. hold among 
American Piano 
Manufacturers is 
solely due to the 
merits of their in- 
struments. 



FROM THE 
NERVE -GIVING 
PRINCIPLES OF 
THE OX-BRAIN 
AND THE GERM 
OF THE WHEAT 
AND OAT. 


NEW 

TABERNACLE SERMONS. 


Preached in the Brooklyn Tabernacle. 


BRAIN AND NERVE FOOD. 

CROSBY’S 

VITALIZED PHOSPHITES 

Is a standard with all Physicians who treat 
nervous or mental disorders. It builds up 
worn out nerves, banishes sleeplessness, 
neuralgia and sick headache. It promotes 
good digestion. It restores the energy lost 
by nervousness, debility, or over-exhaust- 
ion : regenerates weakened vital powers. 


“ It amplifies bodily and mental power to 
the present generation, and proves the sur- 
vival of the fittest to the next.”— Bismarck. 


“ It strengthens nervous power. It is the 
only medical relief I have ever known for 
an over-worked brain.”— Gladstone. 


By Bev. T. PeVVitt Talmage, D.I). 

12 mo. Handsomely Bound in Cloth $1.00. 


CONTENTS : 


Brawn and Muscle. 
The Pleiades and Orion 
The Queen’s Visit. 
Vicarious Suffering. 
Posthumous Opportu- 
nity. 

The Lord’s Razor. 
Windows Toward Je- 
rusalem. 

Stormed and Taken. 
All the World Akin. 

A Momentous Quest. 
The Great Assize. 

The Road to the City. 
The Ransomless. 

The Three Groups. 


The Insignificant. 

The Three Rings. 

How He Came to Say 
It. 

Castle Jesus. 

Stripping the Slain. 
Sold Out. 

Summer Temptations. 
The Banished Queen. 
The Day W e Live In. 
Capital and Labor. 
Tobacco and Opium. 
Despotism of the 
Needle. 

Why are Satan and Sin 
Permitted? 


“ I really urge you to put it to the test.”— 
Miss Emily Faithful. 

F. CROSBY CO., 56 W. 25th St., N. Y. 

For sale by Druggists, or by mail $1. 


The book will be forwarded, postage pre- 
paid, on receipt of price, $1.00. Address 

GEORGE MUNRO, Munro’s Publishing House, 

P. 0. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewnter St., N. Y, 






























































1 > c:*' I % . V ; •> •* vs >. 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




00022^35811 





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